


Take this waltz

by Loftec



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Carl Gallagher - Freeform, Fiona Gallagher - Freeform, Ian POV, Lip Gallagher - Freeform, M/M, Mandy Milkovich - Freeform, Mickey POV, Minor Character Death, Original Characters - Freeform, Slow Burn, Tattoo Artist Mickey, Teacher Ian, Yevgeny POV, middle school musical theatre, pirates!, post physical and emotional trauma, svetlana milkovich - Freeform, switching POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-05 05:12:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 60,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16804291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loftec/pseuds/Loftec
Summary: A daily updated Advent Calendar about recovery, love, and middle school theatre.Spotify playlist!-------Mature for language and mentions of violence, past trauma, and the past death of a minor character.Content warnings (and spoilers) in the top author’s note.





	1. Introduction to the snow

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS (SPOILERS)
> 
> In this story, Mickey has recently been released from prison, where he served 4 years after supposedly having killed Terry. The circumstances of Terry’s death are purposefully obscure and not in any way the focal point of the story, but it is mentioned. Mickey deals with the fallout of being away from society and his family for four years, and the stigma of being a convicted criminal. It’s also alluded to once or twice that he has suffered from panic attacks in the past. He struggles with feelings of inadequacy as a father and a person. There is also some brief discussion of his violent youth, mainly in the first half of the story.
> 
> Ian joined the army right out of high school and had his first manic episode while stationed abroad, during which he stole an army vehicle and drove it into a live minefield. He lost a leg and was sent home, with (warnings for potentially having to suspend your disbelief for this one) monetary compensation from the army supporting his rehabilitation and new career path. These events are mostly just alluded to, and he is doing Generally Okay, physically and mentally. There are mentions of his questionable relationships with older men in his youth, and how they have started to affect him as he’s grown older.
> 
> Yev is a musical theatre geek and a fucking ray of sunshine.
> 
> Chapter specific warnings will occur in those chapters’ author’s notes when necessary.

.

Part One

**“Introduction to the snow”**

_Introducing_ Yevgeny Milkovich _as_ Yevgeny  
  
  
_Starring_

Samantha Haile as Sam  
Vice Principal Alvin Henson as Mr Henson

_And_

Elle Simone as Miss Simone  
  


~*¨*~

”Forget it, Milkovich,” Sam groans and gets up from the table, grabbing her tray as she goes, ”you couldn’t pay me to join, it’s social suicide.”

Yevgeny frowns down at the small heap of spaghetti still left on his plate before scrambling off his chair and following his friend. He hates throwing away food.

”No, it’s not,” he says, catching up to her and risks falling on his ass by walking, talking _and_ balancing his tray on one hand as he quickly coils the buttered noodles onto his fork and shoves them into his mouth. ”It’s _theater_.”

”Right, social _suicide_ ,” she agrees, nodding vehemently as she hands in her tray and dirty dishes, eyes wide and mockingly innocent, ”I know!”

Rolling his eyes Yevgeny hands his tray in, too, swallowing down his food and bending over a little to peer through the flaps.

”Thanks!” he says to the gloved hand giving him a thumbs up on the other side.

Straightening back up, Yevgeny scans the room for his friend and sets after her when he spots her multicolored high bun halfway down the hallway, bobbing through the lunch hour hubbub.

”Since when do you have a social life to kill anyway?” he argues as he sprints up next to her, grinning and hooking his thumbs to the straps of his book bag in an attempt to look cheekily innocent in the face of the deadly glare she throws his way. ”Just saying, since your real friends–”

Sam groans.

”By which, of course, I mean me,” he ignores her, holding up a finger to emphasize his point. ”Since your _real friend_ will be starring in a leading role on the same stage, I’m pretty sure your social life is perfectly safe from whatever death you imagine comes with joining the drama club.”

”Not happening,” Sam tries to sound stern but she laughs and shoves at his shoulder when Yevgeny lets out a prolonged whine, growing louder by the second. ”No! And no fucking way Mrs Tonya’s gonna let you play lead.”

”Sure she will,” Yevgeny says, counting out all the reasons why on his hand. ”I suggested we do Treasure Island, I’m the assisting director _and_ the script supervisor, _and_ I’ve finally got the hierarchical benefits of an 8th grader. I’ve been playing second fiddle for two years just biding my time, and you better believe I’m cashing in before we’re freshmen and I gotta start all over again.”

Sam snorts and mutters an affectionate ’nerd’ under her breath as she stops by her locker and starts twisting in the code.

”Not to mention I’ve got all the moves,” Yevgeny continues, leaping back and almost crashing in to a fellow student as he throws out his fist, pretending to wield a cutlass at her. ”Avast, pirate scum!”

”Fucking nerd!” Sam laughs, dodging out of the way as she gets her locker open. She very pointedly ignores the assistant principal clearly within earshot, giving her an admonishing look from across the hall.

“Language, Miss Haile,” he scolds, and Yevgeny shrugs apologetically at him.

”Sorry, Mr Henson,” he says with a sheepish grin, clasping a hand over Sam’s mouth when she gets that reckless look in her eyes usually preceding one of her poorer decisions.

”-uck -ou, m-uh -en-on!”

Yevgeny only barely allows her to take out her textbook and shove the locker closed, before he pulls her away by the arm. Her witchy cackle echoes through the emptying hallway along with the bell ringing in the next period.

”I’ll kill you if you get yourself suspended again,” Yevgeny tries to threaten her, even though he knows from experience that it doesn’t work.

”No, you won’t,” she says, clutching her heavy textbook to her chest with one arm and resting the other over Yevgeny’s shoulders while they walk towards Miss Simone’s classroom. ”You love that I’m a–, what’s the word? Free spirit.”

”You’re a _punk_ ,” Yevgeny snorts, but grins all the same when Sam hooks her arm around his neck and pretends to give him a noogie, her textbook almost knocking off his glasses in the quick scuffle.

”A punk?” she repeats, like she’s more offended by the word than by the actual insult.

”Yeah,” Yevgeny says and smirks, doing his best to push up his glasses while still stuck in her headlock, ”and just ’cause I’m used to dealing with punks doesn’t mean I love it when you get in your own way, jeopardizing your whole future.”

”Yeah okay, smartass” Sam sighs, unlocking her elbow so she can ruffle her hand through his already unruly black hair as they stagger towards the classroom, falling into step with each other. ”How’s the sitch at home, anyway?”

”Loud,” Yevgeny decides, jostling her a little when he shrugs. ”Mom and dad are at each other’s throat twenty-four seven, it’s like they’re trying to make up for lost time or something.”

”Sorry.” Sam doesn’t quite meet his eyes as she lets him go, shoving playfully at him with her shoulder.

”Don’t be,” he says and grins at her, stepping through the door to Miss Simone’s classroom, ”it’s pretty great.”

Sam rolls her eyes and takes a seat at her usual desk, in the back and close to the windows. ”You’re so fucking weird.”

”That’s strike one, Miss Haile.”

They both look up in time to see Miss Simone turning around to draw a single line in the scuffed square she keeps in one corner of her whiteboard, above the weekly assignments and notices. It’s labelled ’misdemeanors’, and the board inside it is more gray than white after months of strikes – erased and recorded and erased again on an almost daily repeat, usually due to Sam’s unruly mouth.

”Aw come on, Miss!” Sam complains, gesturing at the clock. ”It’s not even one yet!”

Miss Simone turns to look across her classroom, smiling calmly at her students as the second bell sounds through the school and signals the start of the new hour.

”My classroom, my rules,” she says, raising an eyebrow at Sam’s exasperated groan, ”so may I please remind you to save the profanities for your own homes, dear students.”

She purses her lips together, like she’s thinking it over.

”Or for PE, by all means,” she adds, proudly lifting her chin, ”but this is remedial Math, and cursing won’t be covered until you’re well into college.”

There’s a scattering of pleased titters around the room, and Yevgeny grins. He likes math, he isn’t very good at it but Miss Simone is still one of his favorite teachers, managing to somehow make some sense out of the insensible. Sam likes this class too, she just has a completely different approach to showing it.

That is, by not showing it at all and generally taking every opportunity she gets to argue and push back. But Yevgeny knows the difference between her disrespectful antagonism in most of their other classes, and her cheeky rebellion in Math. It’s the same kind of difference as between the way she talks shit and acts tough around him – even though they’re best friends and he already knows that she’s a big softie – and the way she can be an actual terror to pretty much anyone else getting in her way.

”Mr Milkovich,” Miss Simone says, getting his attention, ”if you feel ready to sit down, maybe we could start?”

Yevgeny yelps out loud when he realizes that he’s the only one still standing up, darting over to the desk next to Sam’s and sitting down so fast his chair almost tips over.

Sam laughs at him, because of course she does, but he doesn’t miss the way she sits up in her chair and instinctively holds out her hands, ready to reach over and grab him in case he’d need it.

”That’s enough, settle down,” Miss Simone tells the class, effectively silencing the giggles and drawing the attention away from Yevgeny’s wobbly blushing. ”Page 59, we’re picking up where we left off.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not to worry, I have worked hard for the past year and a half to make sure that I will in fact be able to post this fic daily for the next 24 days, and not stop halfway through to leave you hanging. Hope you like it, and I apologize for lying to you about that NTW update schedule. It did not work out. But I will update that and 10 steps too, soon-ish.
> 
> Thanks for reading, lovely people! [Here's a playlist of the songs accompanying each chapter](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=5bMp2iPDQ8OZvYAe_NtsNQ), it too will be updated daily. It's vaguely winter holiday/musical theatre themed.


	2. Chicago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warning: I’m using the b-word more often than I usually would in this chapter, with Mickey referring unfavorably to both Svetlana and himself.

.

Part Two

**“Chicago”  
  
**

_Featuring_ Mickey Milkovich _as_ Mickey  
  
  
 _Starring_

Jessica Norton as Jess  
Louisa Thomas as Lou  
Ponciano Rosiquez as Chano

_With_

Tara as Tara  
Greg as Greg

_And_

Svetlana Milkovich as the unfairly nicknamed Bitch Ex-Wife

~*¨*~

Stacking one bag on top of the other and balancing all four containers of takeout on one hand, Mickey bounds down the stairs and shoulders open the door to the shop.

“Alright,” he announces as he gets up to the reception and starts unpacking his bags. “I got fried noodles, I got spicy beef–“

“Excellent!” Chano steps out from one of the back rooms, rubbing his hands. “Veggie noodle soup?”

“Veggie noodle soup,” Mickey repeats, taking out the right box and handing it over as Jess joins them. “Spicy beef?”

“Heck yes,” Jess takes her food and moves over to the two couches facing each other at the other end of the room. “Lou’s still with her 11 o’clock, said she’ll join us when she’s done.”

“Is it the skull design?” Chano asks, sitting down opposite Jess and scooting forward on his seat so he can pry open the lid on his lunch. Jess only nods, too busy chewing to answer. “How’s it looking?”

Mickey feels the heat crawl up the back of his neck as he can’t help pricking up his ears, quickly wrapping up Lou’s lunch in the bag and putting it away under the front desk for now. He’s been working at Jailbird Ink for little over two months at this point – mostly taking calls and making the schedules, doing lunch runs and ringing up the customers’ bills once they’ve been inked up – but this week he finally got to throw his hat in the ring. He’s been doodling stupid shit since before he could remember, really, but it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that he realized it could be worth anything at all. Worth a steady income, worth showing off, worth some goddamned pride.

Mickey has always been very defensive of his life and all of his bad choices, but he’s never had much to be proud of before. It feels kind of brittle, still, like it’s just a matter of time before it breaks and he’s dropped back on square one.

“It looks good,” Jess says, looking up at Mickey with a kind smile when he walks over with a pitcher of water and his own lunch, balancing precariously on top of a stack of plastic cups. “Scratch that, it looks _great_. You did really great.”

“Just a stupid skull,” Mickey mutters as he sits down, scowling at her when she smiles and rolls her eyes. “Chick liked it fine enough, all that matters.”

“A rising star,” Jess sighs in her dramatic-ass way, waving her chopsticks at him. “Won’t be long before you’re inking on a real canvas, Mickey.”

“Maybe,” Mickey huffs and digs his fork into his noodles, coiling on a whole bunch of them so he can stuff his mouth and not have to get into the still wobbly subject of his newfound ambitions. All this relentless optimism and support is new to him – and really fucking weird – but he’s not an idiot, he can recognize a good thing when he sees it. And what’s more, he finds himself wanting to learn how to do all this shit, to be all genuine and sincere and open to people around him looking to help – sometimes even without expecting anything in return.

“I expect a full ride when they make one of those TV-shows about you,” Chano says, making Mickey grin and shake his head. “What’s it called, Miami Ink– _Chicago_ Ink? Is that a thing already?”

“Is that show a thing at all, anymore?” Jess questions, before she seems to think of something. “And if it is; screw you two, I’m gonna be the star.”

“Oh yeah?” Chano says and clicks his tongue. “Why’s that?”

“’Cause on like, a coolness scale from Ami James to Kat von D, I’m off the fucking charts and you know it.”

“And twice as dramatic,” Chano teases her, ducking out of her aim when she pretends to chuck some of her spicy beef at him.

Mickey tunes out their bickering when he feels his phone buzz with a text, and he sticks his fork into his noodles so he can dig it out and unlock it.

Scowling down at the name on the screen – and the first half of a message he can already tell is gonna piss him right off – Mickey locks the phone again without opening the text and shoves it back down his pocket so he can get back to eating.

“Bad news?” Jess asks, nodding at Mickey when he looks up.

“What?” he says, glancing at Chano for some context when he realizes that she’s asking him. Chano just looks at him with the same kind of casual interest as Jess – like a pair of nosy fucking owls. “Just my bitch ex-wife, she can wait.”

Jess’ eyes widen comically as she looks from Mickey to Chano and then back again. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“What’s to know?” Mickey shrugs. “Is why the ‘ex’ is there.”

“So why does she text you now?” Jess fucking continues to pry, and Mickey would’ve told her to fuck off five minutes ago if it weren’t for the fact that she seems genuinely interested in getting to know him. Not to hold any of this shit against him or call him out on it, but just to _know him_.

“Doesn’t sound like it ended well,” she goes on saying when he doesn’t immediately answer, “if you’re still angry with her?”

“Oh, he’s not angry,” Chano says and grins when Mickey raises his eyebrows at him, speaking for him. “It sounds bad at first, but ‘bitch’ in this case is more like a…” he hesitates, waving his chopsticks through the air as he’s fishing for the right words, “a term of endearment, really.”

“Fuck you, term of endearment,” Mickey complains, and then makes a face when he supposes that Chano has a point. “She’s a bitch, I’m an asshole, just calling it the way it is.”

“That’s,” Jess says with a helpless shrug, “sweet?”

Mickey shrugs too. “Is what it is, and what it is is driving me fucking nuts right now ‘cause I gotta stay at the house until I find my own place.”

“I’m sorry!” Chano groans before Mickey’s even had the chance to give him a hard time over their botched attempt at cohabitation. “I love you, bro, but I never wanna see your pasty ass waltzing around my apartment full moon again, especially not before I’ve had my morning coffee.”

“It’s like he’s never seen another dude naked before,” Mickey gripes and gestures at his friend when Jess laughs. “Fucking dude-prude, it’s sad.”

“Dude-prude!” Jess snorts, clearly delighted.

“I’ve seen enough naked guys to last a fucking lifetime and, sue me; I like boundaries!” Chano defends himself, but judging by the smile tugging at the corners of his lips he’s obviously aware that he’s fighting a losing battle. “And I tattooed some guy’s dong last month, don’t go putting that no-homo nonsense on me.”

“Oh, what’s that?” Mickey scowls, pretending to get offended. “You doodle on one guy’s cock for an hour and that, what? Proves you’re not homophobic? That’s some ‘I have _one_ black friend, I couldn’t possibly racist’ bullshit, right there.”

“If you and me are friends,” Chano asks, gesturing between himself and Mickey as he screws his face up into a mockingly thoughtful frown, “and I hate you for a good 75% of the time I’m with you, does _that_ make me homophobic?”

“Nah,” Mickey says, slurping up the last of his noodles and getting up when he sees Lou step out from the back rooms, “makes you a damn liar.”

He grins to himself at the sound of Jess and Chano laughing behind him as he joins Lou and her client over by the reception.

“All done?” he asks, taking in the client’s beaming smile before glancing at Lou. “Happy?”

“Very happy,” the girl confirms, gently prying the neckline of her top aside to show off the plastic foil bandage covering the center of her chest. “It looks amazing, thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me,” Mickey mutters, forcing himself to look away from the blurry tattoo so he can ring up the total. He can look at the photos later when he’s putting them up on their socials. “Thank Lou.”

“Oh you bet I have, and I will again,” the girl says and spreads her arms out for a hug, pulling Lou in and making her laugh by bouncing excitedly in her awkward embrace. “Thank you, thank you!”

“Yes, well,” Lou chuckles and makes a face at Mickey over her exuberant client’s shoulder, “you’re welcome, Tara.”

Mickey likes Lou, he’s known her for a while now and he doesn’t really _know_ her, but he likes her. Maybe because she keeps to herself and lets him do the same, or maybe because she’s cool as fuck and pretty impossible _not_ to like. Or maybe it’s because Chano worships the ground she walks on and Mickey has come to trust his judgement of character implicitly.

Despite making the questionable choice to befriend Mickey, once.

“Careful,” she reminds Tara of her new tattoo, politely stepping out of her embrace and regaining some personal space. “Make it an hour, Mickey, my standard rate.”

“Really?” Tara asks, glancing at her watch. “We were in there for an hour fifteen, at least.”

“Make it an hour,” Lou repeats, looking at Mickey to make sure he knows it isn’t something to discuss.

“Got it,” Mickey huffs, he would’ve charged for the extra fifteen. “Here.”

He picks up the last bag of takeout from under the register and hands it over, rolling his eyes when Lou puts her hands together in thanks before she hungrily takes the bag off his hands.

Settling the payment and seeing the client out of the shop, Mickey lets his plastered-on smile drop the second the door falls closed and he remembers Svetlana’s text burning a hole in his pocket.

Staying by the door, he picks up the phone and opens up the conversation properly this time, scowling down at the curt command for him to pick up a short list of shit he’s pretty sure they don’t need. And if they really need it, he’s pretty fucking sure she could find half an hour out of her busy schedule to pick it up herself.

At least she didn’t call this time, or call him a piece of shit in the process. Guess that’s progress, or something.

He sends back a thumbs up, resigning himself to being her part time bitch while she lets him stay on the couch of the home he can’t really call his own anymore – seeing as he hasn’t been contributing to it in four long years. It’s only fair and, hey, guess admitting that’s gotta be some kind of progress too.

Lou is sitting in his spot when he returns, full focus on her spring rolls as Chano absently combs his fingers through the short hairs on the back of her head, and Jess is telling them all about her weekend. Mickey sits down next to Jess and only half listens to her story, picking up his lunch and double checking that he did in fact eat all of it. There are a couple of stray noodles and bits at the bottom of the box, so he dedicates the next couple of minutes to fishing them up one by one with the greased up prongs of his fork.

“We took a couple of breaks,” Lou says, regaining some of Mickey’s attention, answering a question he didn’t catch. “She wasn’t expecting the ribs to hurt as much as it did, said she was fine when she had her back done. She did good though, and it turned out beautiful.”

“Mickey’s trying to be bashful,” Jess tells her, and nudges Mickey in the ribs to make sure he’s listening, “not taking credit for his work.”

“Fuck that,” Mickey quickly decides he’s sick of his own bullshit show of uncomfortable modesty, “give me all the credit.”

“He was also telling us about his complicated relationship with his ex-wife,” Jess continues, folding up her legs on the couch and turning to face Mickey better. “Is this your baby mama we’re talking about?”

“Jesus,” Mickey sighs, cringing at the term and the two hyenas grinning at him from across the coffee table. “One, never say that again, and two, ’course it fucking is, one pair of crazy tits for beard was more than enough, thank you very much.”

“So staying with your lovely ex,” Jess supposes, not sounding even a little bit perturbed by his hostile answers, “that means you get to get to stay with your kid as well, right?”

Mickey sighs, letting his shoulders drop as he digs his teeth into his lip and can’t help smiling at the thought of his son. “Yeah.”

“You should bring him by sometime,” Lou suggests, gesturing at him with a half-eaten spring roll when he looks at her, “let him see what you’re doing here.”

It’s a nice thought, but it also churns something uncomfortable inside Mickey he isn’t sure he wants to acknowledge.

“Maybe,” he says and gets up, starting to collect everyone’s empty takeout boxes and covering for the fact that he still doesn’t know how to do this shit all the time. Be a whole, normal fucking person who knows what the fuck he’s doing around other people.

“When’s your next appointment?” Chano asks Lou, hearts practically bulging out of his eyes when he looks at her.

“Two o’clock,” Mickey says, before she’s had time to answer, and takes their trash over to the little kitchen nook in the back rooms, raising his voice to make sure Chano can still hear him, “and yours is in five, ‘case you forgot.”

Returning, he points at the legs walking down the stairs outside the large windows of the shop and smirks to himself when Chano bites out a curse and shoots off the couch, disappearing out to the back rooms to no doubt throw himself at a computer and get himself prepared for his client.

The bell chimes as the man enters.

“Hi.”

“Yo,” Mickey lazily greets the newcomer and throws a quick glance at the schedule he’s got up on his monitor, before turning to face the buff, heavily tattooed guy walking up to the desk. “You Greg?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Greg confirms with a quickly growing smile, his bright gaze dipping for a second before returning to Mickey’s face. It would have been enough for Mickey once, at another time and in another place. But this isn’t a fucking club in Boystown and Mickey isn’t interested in mixing any of that shit up with his work.

“Congrats,” he drawls and ignores the guy’s pretty fucking obvious interest as he makes a quick note on the appointment, before gesturing towards Jess and Lou still chatting away in the lounge area. “Welcome to Jailbird Ink, man, take a seat and Chano will be right with you.”

.


	3. Both sides now

.

Part Three

**“Both sides now”**

_Featuring_ Ian Gallagher _as_ Ian  
  
_Starring_

Fiona Gallagher as Fiona  
Carl Gallagher as Carl  
Angela Barnes as Officer Barnes

_With_

Liam Gallagher as Liam

~*¨*~

Packing up all of his books and notes, Ian carefully files them into his briefcase until it’s bulging at the seams when he folds over the flap and only barely manages to connect the clasps. He stares at a rogue volume on the desk that’d been hiding under his bag and seriously considers redoing the whole tetris procedure to try and fit it in, before thinking better of it.

Sighing he hangs the heavy bag off his shoulder and takes the book in his free hand as he walks through the school, clutching it under his arm when he steps out on the parking lot and has to search through his pockets for his car keys.

His phone starts ringing while he’s tossing his things in the back seat, the obnoxious preset riff blaring through the near empty parking lot. Getting in behind the wheel he accepts the call, sandwiching the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Yeah?” he prompts, closing the door behind himself and slotting the key into the ignition without turning it.

 _“Are you picking up Carl?”_ Fiona immediately demands, comfortably skipping any and all pleasantries.

“Said I would, didn’t I?” he huffs and puts the phone on speaker so he can drop it down on the seat next to him and start driving, saving some time. “Heading over to the station now.”

 _“Okay, sweetie,”_ Fiona sighs, sounding a little distracted by a loud noise on her end, _“just checking.”_

“Sure,” Ian decides to leave it alone, taking a second to imagine his sister rushing around in her busy day, trying to get all the moving pieces to fit together as well as they can. It’s not unreasonable for her to call and check in, even though a part of him still insists that she shouldn’t have to.

 _“Liam!”_ Fiona yells, her voice muffled when she probably moves the phone away from her mouth. _“Ian? Talk to you later, alright? I gotta go strangle your brother.”_

“Hey,” Ian protests with a chuckle, “he’s more your brother than mine.”

 _“Ian,”_ she chides him with a sigh – half serious, half amused, and entirely too tired to have a real conversation about it. _“How come you only ever bring up that DNA nonsense when it’s one of_ your _brothers acting like a shithead?”_

“‘Cause I can,” Ian says and can’t help smiling when he hears another distant crash on the other end, “and you started it.”

 _“I started it?”_ his sister groans, but Ian can hear from her tone that she’s smiling. _“I’m not doing this with you right now.”_

“See you soon,” Ian says as he turns a corner, glancing down at his phone when Fiona hangs up.

Five minutes later he’s parking outside the 7th District, pulling the handbrake before grabbing his keys and getting out. He strides through the glass doors and up to the reception, nodding at the by now familiar officer behind the security screen.

“Here for your brother, I assume,” she greets him, raising a knowing eyebrow, “again?”

“Yep,” Ian says and gives her a tight-lipped smile, shoving his hands down the pockets of his jacket. He still feels uncomfortable at the station, too many bad memories nagging at the back of his mind and refusing to let him forget, creeping up his shoulders and raising his shackles. “Bike’s still in the shop.”

“Ian.”

Looking over to see Carl step out from the back rooms, still in his uniform, Ian feels himself relax a little. His brother has his hat delicately wedged under his arm and a duffle bag in the other hand, throwing it over his shoulder as he’s pushing open the bullpen door and shoots a smile in the direction of his fellow officer.

“See you Monday, Officer Barnes.”

“Uh-huh,” Officer Barnes looks less than impressed, but seems unable to hide an amused smirk when Ian looks at her. “You make sure that no-good brother of yours gets his bike fixed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ian agrees, taking a couple of steps backwards when Carl walks past him.

“It’s an ungodly death trap, the kind I’d never let my boys get near,” she continues, shaking her head and wagging her finger menacingly, “but it doesn’t do having you chauffeur him around the city day in and day out this way. You do have a job, son, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ian nods, forcing his face to remain serious, “I teach English, ma’am, middle school.”

She gestures at him with her whole hand, like he’s proved her point perfectly.

“That’s very fine,” she says, “a noble profession.”

“Have a nice weekend, Angela,” Carl pointedly puts an end to the small talk, coming back to grab Ian by the elbow and usher him out the building.

“Good to know someone’s keeping you in line,” Ian notes as they step out on the sidewalk, chuckling when Carl flips him off.

“She loves me,” he asserts confidently as they walk up to the car, rapping his knuckles on the roof of it before pulling open the door, “and Rahim said my baby would be ready tomorrow.”

“It’s fine,” Ian says, getting in behind the wheel and turning the ignition once Carl is strapped in next to him, “I seriously don’t mind.”

“I know,” Carl says, in that easy way of his. “You’re still tense as shit about it, though, just walking in.”

Ian sighs and doesn’t say anything, focused on driving and collecting his thoughts. He can do that with Carl, take his time to answer or decide not to say anything at all, and it’s fine.

And Carl has always been direct with him, about his illness and his shit decisions – and everything in between – but never cruel, or self-serving in his interest to see Ian get better.

“Old habits, I guess,” Ian eventually decides to be honest, but keep a short leash on the heart-to-heart. “Should know better.”

Carl shrugs.

“You feel what you feel, man,” he says, fingers absently gripping the brim of his hat, resting on his lap. “Took me years to get used to it. Still feels weird sometimes.”

Ian looks over at his brother for a second, before turning his focus back on the slow traffic. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Carl grins, leaning his head back and slouching down in his seat. “First time I ever saw a future for myself, I wanted to be a fucking kingpin. Old dreams die hard.”

“Like habits,” Ian agrees and smiles when his brother snorts.

“Pretty much.”

Turning in on the right street, Ian pulls up in front of his old home and parks behind the neighbor’s pickup truck.

“You coming inside?” Carl asks as he’s gathering up his stuff. “You should stay for dinner.”

Ian looks out at the house and almost doesn’t hesitate at all.

“Sure.”

He grabs his stuff out of the back seat and follows Carl through the scruffy front yard and up the weathered porch steps. The house looks pretty much the same as it always has, but coming home started getting complicated when Ian was sixteen and hasn’t really stopped in the decade-and-some since.

While maybe not the most traditionally happy of childhoods, Ian had grown up knowing exactly where he belonged; in this messy, sagging house with his messy, unwavering siblings. But then there was that first wedge – the one they all ignored for ages – the DNA test and the discovery that their shit dad wasn’t Ian’s shit dad. And then things just _changed_ , around him and inside him, and he didn’t know why. So he left, letting the army take him away from home and then country, leaving sense and familiarity behind with his dreams and ambition.

He’d left looking for a new place to belong, and two years later had found him back in his old twin bed, dead air where his left leg used to be and a diagnosis overriding his whole sense of self.

Conscientious, Frank had once called him, and for all his flaws and turning out to not even be Ian’s actual father, the man did have a knack for seeing people for who they really are. But back home from Iraq, Ian stopped being Ian – industrious, ambitious, conscientious Ian – and became Ian _the issue_. Broken, crazy, unpredictable, and just like his mother.

It took a long time for them all to accept that things had irreversibly changed, and then to move on from it.

They’re in a good place now, him and his siblings, but home isn’t behind the door under Carl’s hand, pushed open to the sound of his sister’s laughter and the comforting smell of food. Home is in his small place in Englewood, and slowly putting his life back together one piece at a time. Building something new that is only his.

“Ian, hi!” Fiona steps out of the kitchen when they amble inside the living room, Carl throwing his duffle on one of the couches and Ian carefully depositing his book bag on the floor. “You’re staying for dinner?”

“Yeah,” Ian shucks off his jacket and drops it on top of his bag. “Going out?”

She looks more dolled up than he’s seen her in a while, hair down and her favorite little black dress on. She’s still fiddling with one of her earrings as she comes up to give him a wet kiss on the cheek.

“Just Debs and Vee, girls’ night out,” she says and smiles, moving for the vestibule. “Dinner’s in the oven, and Liam’s technically still grounded so could you maybe remind him of that whenever he starts looking too comfortable?”

She shrugs on a coat and points at Ian.

“That means homework, and no scary movies,” she says, walking backwards when there’s a honk from outside. “That’s Vee, be good, kiddos! And Ian, see you Sunday?”

She doesn’t really wait for an answer before she’s out the door.

“Have fun!” Ian calls out after her, before making his way through the house to join his brothers in the kitchen.

Liam is doing homework at the table, looking up to grin at him when he comes in.

“What did you do?” Ian asks, dropping a kiss on his head when he walks past his kid brother.

“Nothing,” Liam says, because ‘deny everything’ has always been a Gallagher staple rule. “I tried to build a rocket, it didn’t work.”

“Worked enough to set the carpet on fire,” Carl snorts, placing a large pan of steaming hot lasagna on the table as Ian sets out the plates. “It was awesome.”

“Maybe don’t do it in the house next time,” Ian suggests, moving over to the kitchen island to dig out some utensils, “and maybe think about doing more of the like, standard stupid shit other sixteen-year-olds get up to.”

Liam looks doubtful. “Like what?”

“Like parties,” Ian says, pointing a fork at Carl when he helpfully jumps in with more suggestions.

“Sex, drugs.”

“Rock’n’roll,” Ian continues, paddling the fork through the air, “fight clubs, petty crime–”

“Bar brawls.”

Leaning back in his chair, Liam shakes his head at them. “Okay, why?”

“You gotta give Fi something to ground you from, come on,” Ian says with an apologetic grimace, turning into a wide grin when Liam laughs. “Homework and no scary movies, I mean... talk about the punishment not matching the crime. You need any help with that?”

“Nope,” Liam is still smiling to himself when he turns his attention back to his worksheet, “it’s math.”

“Oh, okay,” Ian huffs, “hurtful.”

“But true,” Carl states as he sits down at the table, laughing and barely putting up a fight at all when Ian grabs his head to give him a quick noogie.

Liam finishes his homework halfway through dinner, and after clearing off the table and taking care of the dishes, they move over to the living room to beach themselves in front of the TV.

Ian takes out the stack of papers he has to grade by Monday and says nothing when Liam puts on a scary movie, stretching out on the couch and resting his feet on Ian’s lap.

Halfway through Insidious: Chapter 3, Ian looks up from a particularly painful book report on Fahrenheit 451 to see Carl dozing off in the armchair, and Liam deeply engrossed in something he’s reading on his phone.

He considers telling them both to go to bed – Carl is clearly exhausted after a long work week and Liam is technically grounded, after all – but he can’t get himself to do it. He rests his paper down on Liam’s ankles to make a note next to an unfortunate typo, and lets out a sigh of bone-deep contentment as he flips the paper over to tackle the other side.

Soon he’ll pack up and go home, and he’ll be fine, but he wants to hold on to this moment just a little bit longer.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's song is [Both sides now](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=BxfFP3_aT66RWJdo4ZywSA). Thank you kindly for reading!


	4. Bells of St Mary's

.

Part Four

**“Bells of St Mary's”**

_Returning to the stage in his critically acclaimed role is_  
Yevgeny Milkovich _as_ Yevgeny

  
_Starring_

Ian Gallagher as Mr Gallagher  
Samantha Haile as Sam  


_With_

Peter Hull as one of those guys always clowning around at the back of a classroom,  
you know the type  
Michelle as Michelle (not really into poetry but trying anyway)  


_And_

Assorted youths as The Classmates  


~*¨*~

“Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind,” Mr Gallagher recites, walking through the rows of desks and disappearing out of Yevgeny’s direct view, “and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

Glancing up at the ceiling, Yevgeny tries to be as discreet as humanly possible as he reaches out between his and Sam’s desk, slowly retracting his hand when he feels a crumpled piece of paper pressing into his palm.

“Any man’s death diminishes me,” Mr Gallagher repeats, “because I am involved in mankind. What do you think Donne means with this part? Yes, Michelle?”

Yevgeny smooths out the illicit note and wedging it in under his open notebook, he throws a quick glance around the room before reading it.

_Loser. Ask him about it after class._

Frowning, he glares over at Sam who shrugs and leans back in her chair.

“–the same as the first part, isn’t it?” Michelle says behind him. ”That we’re not separate from each other.”

“Even in death,” Mr Gallagher agrees, slowly moving back towards the front of the classroom again. “A person’s life is never more or less worth than the next. We are all connected, individual parts of one larger thing.”

_What if he thinks I’m disrespectful?!_ Yevgeny quickly scribbles down his reply, before Mr Gallagher walks back into his line of sight. The teacher’s sharp eyes land on Yevgeny as he stops and rests his weight on his cane.

“And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls,” he says. “The tolling bell, any idea what this refers to, Yevgeny?”

“Is it church bells?” Yevgeny makes a qualified guess, discreetly resting his hands over the note on his desk.

“Very good,” Mr Gallagher nods, a small smile almost breaking through his stony facade. “This last line of the poem tells us that when someone has died and the church bells toll, we don’t need to ask who it’s for. A death, any death, affects us all.”

Shifting his grip on the cane, Mr Gallagher looks away from Yevgeny again, leaving him a short window to blindly toss the note in Sam’s direction. He can see her catch it out of the corner of his eye.

"Our lives are not our own,” Mr Gallagher says, using the clear, sharp voice he always pulls out whenever he quotes something. “From womb to tomb, we are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future."

Pausing, Mr Gallagher takes a moment to stare down the back row until Peter Hull and his friends have stopped giggling, presumably about _wombs_.

“This is not John Donne, it’s Sonmi-451 from Cloud Atlas,” he continues, his serious facade barely wavering at the appreciative titter from his students at this revelation. “A novel by David Mitchell, or – if you’re feeling adventurous – a movie by the Wachowskis… our lives are not our own, from womb to tomb, we are bound to others. Any thoughts on that, Mr Hull?”

Yevgeny twists in his chair in time to see Peter snort self-consciously and slouch down further in his seat.

“Uhm,” he starts, obviously deciding between being a smartass or actually answering the question. “It’s kinda the same as the other thing, the bell thing, right? Kinda the same, but like… the other way around?”

“Like two sides of the same coin, you could say, very good,” Mr Gallagher nods, and Peter straightens up a little at the praise. “How do you figure?”

“‘Cause, I don’t know.”

Yevgeny turns back in his chair to look at Mr Gallagher, calmly waiting for Peter to elaborate his point. He isn’t pushy or bullying like some teachers, or coddling and condescending like others, but it’s like he knows that even guys like Peter can have something to say about books and poetry, and doesn’t mind waiting until they feel comfortable enough to vocalize it.

“The first guy said–”

“Donne.”

“This Donne guy said like, death doesn’t belong to just the person doing the dying, right?”

“Right.”

“And the other one says life doesn’t just belong to me… so one is about like, taking responsibility and shit for how we live, and the Donne guy says we gotta take responsibility for how we’re dying.”

Yevgeny isn’t the only one twisting in his seat to watch Peter finish his train of thought, nervously glancing around the room as he waits for a reaction.

“A very interesting point, Peter,” Mr Gallagher says, pulling most of the attention back to him. “We all have the potential to alter each other’s lives – for good and for bad – and any death is a collective loss, as well as a personal loss. If we choose to take responsibility for it.”

Thirty pairs of eyes follow him as Mr Gallagher takes a couple of aimless steps to the left, his cane creaking in the silence.

“Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind,” he reiterates, his strong, clear voice taking on a slightly more somber quality, “and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

The bell rings, startling the whole classroom into action.

“And so the bell tolls for thee,” Mr Gallagher notes dryly, raising his voice a little to be heard over the bustle of his students packing up. “Don’t forget your book reports due Friday, and the worksheet I gave you last week. We’re looking at it on Monday – not Tuesday, not Wednesday. Monday.”

Yevgeny takes his time stowing his notes away into his book bag, looking up when Sam flicks him on the ear as she walks past him, turning around to throw the balled up piece of paper at his forehead before heading out the door.

Smoothing out the note, he rolls his eyes at the crude doodle of a chicken she’s left under his question instead of any kind of helpful advice, one of its legs clamped between the jaws of a wonky-looking shark.

He shoves the note down his bag and waits until he’s the only one left in the classroom before he gets up and approaches his teacher. Cane leaning against the wall, Mr Gallagher is erasing the day’s lesson from the whiteboard. He rubs his palms together as he turns around to acknowledge his student.

“Yes, Yevgeny,” he says, picking his cane back up to walk the short distance to his desk, hooking it on the back of his chair before he sits down. “Did you want something?”

“Um,” Yevgeny starts and swallows, frowning at himself for being such a chicken about asking a simple question. “Just thought I should let you know I’ve got the early call on Wednesdays for play practice, so I have to leave at ten to three to make it there on time.”

Mr Gallagher looks up at him, a mildly surprised expression on his face.

“That is when my class ends,” he confirms.

“Yes,” Yevgeny nearly squeaks, this isn’t going at all according to plan, “but if you ever run over…”

Mr Gallagher sits back in his chair, and he definitely looks amused now. “Do I usually?”

“No,” Yevgeny admits.

“Okay,” Mr Gallagher says, and Yevgeny could swear he lets the silence linger longer than really necessary, just to mess with him. “Anything else?”

“Um,” Yevgeny tries again, rolling his eyes before he straightens his back and decides to just spit it out, “is your leg okay?”

The amused confusion on Mr Gallagher’s face gives way for a second to something almost soft, before he seems to school it back into a neutral expression.

“Yeah,” he says and nods, “it’s fine, just need the support sometimes.”

“Okay, good,” Yevgeny nods too, and makes a face as he gets to the real point of his question. “I don’t know if you know, but we’re doing Treasure Island for the winter play–”

Mr Gallagher opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it again when Yevgeny plows on.

“And I’m playing Silver, so I thought I’d ask you about it?” he says, mentally cursing himself for the way he can’t help the upwards inflection turning his well-rehearsed statement into a question.

Mr Gallagher doesn’t immediately say anything, lips still pressed together and face unreadable.

“Because Long John Silver has a peg leg, and you–, and,” Yevgeny swallows, “I wanna do the part justice?”

Yevgeny is freaking out. Mr Gallagher is one of his favorite teachers – he is weird and cool and mysterious and has this way of engaging his whole class with whatever he’s teaching – but he never tells them anything about himself, which Yevgeny is starting to suspect might be by careful design. People must ask him stupid questions about his leg all the time and here Yevgeny is, just another ding-dong in a long line of ding-dongs not respecting his privacy.

He is planning a quick and painless retreat when Mr Gallagher finally seems to make up his mind about the whole situation, his lips quirking up in a lopsided smile.

“I’ve seen the one in space,” he says, making Yevgeny blink in surprise, “with the planet full of treasure.”

“Treasure Planet?” Yevgeny manages to ask, just to make sure they’re talking about the same thing. “That’s a cartoon.”

“Yeah,” Mr Gallagher nods, like they’re having a perfectly normal conversation. “Think I’ve seen one of the more faithful movie adaptations, too. The one with Tim Curry?”

Yevgeny can feel his mouth fall open against his will.

“ _Muppet_ Treasure Island?” he sputters, indignantly.

“That’s the one,” Mr Gallagher says, snapping his fingers and pointing at Yevgeny. “Classic.”

Yevgeny opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, feeling like a fish out of water while Mr Gallagher patiently waits for him to speak.

“You haven’t read the book?” he eventually asks, weakly.

Leaning back in his chair, Mr Gallagher hums in thought.

“I feel like I should lie right now,” he says and makes a face, “but I also feel like I’ve already messed this up past the point of salvage, so.”

He scoots back, the wheels on his chair squeaking in protest.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he says and bends down to grab the hem of his left pant leg. “I’m only doing this to distract you from my literary shortcomings.”

“Whatever works,” Yevgeny blurts out and drops his bag to the ground before he takes a couple of steps closer so he can get a proper look at the prosthetic leg sticking out from Mr Gallagher’s rolled up jeans.

The sleek plastic and metal shin looks like something out of a movie, sticking out in odd contrast to Mr Gallagher’s big boots and disappearing up under his jeans above the knee. Yevgeny has never seen anything like it before, this up close and in real life.

“That’s so cool!” he breathes out, wincing and looking up when he hears himself. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Mr Gallagher shrugs. “It’s very cool. ‘Course, don’t think Long John Silver got this lucky with his peg leg, huh?”

“Probably not,” Yevgeny grins, and feels himself relax enough to push his own luck. “How did it happen?”

Mr Gallagher seems to appraise him for a second, then he rolls his pant leg back down and leans forward a little.

“Freak shark attack,” he says, so straight-faced it almost unnerves Yevgeny into believing him.

“Really?”

“Bit it clean off,” Mr Gallagher nods, “funny thing was, I wasn’t even in the ocean when it happened.”

Yevgeny blinks. “What?”

“Was in a supermarket parking lot,” Mr Gallagher says, throwing his hands up like it’s just a weird coincidence, “when outta nowhere; wham!”

Yevgeny snorts when Mr Gallagher widens his eyes and nods earnestly.

“That’s stupid,” Yevgeny decides, partly to convince himself not to fall for his teacher’s deceptively honest face.

“But possible,” Mr Gallagher insists, holding up a finger. “You never seen any of the Sharknado movies? Suppose not, you’re too young. Don’t watch Sharknado, forget I said anything. Don’t watch ’em when you’re older either, they’re terrible.”

Yevgeny always suspected Mr Gallagher to be kind of a goofball underneath his good-natured discipline and stony-faced integrity, but this is better than he’d ever imagined.

“I heard it was a bear,” he says, grinning when Mr Gallagher sits back in pleased surprise.

“The bear story’s taking off?” he asks, humming when Yevgeny nods. “Awesome, then I guess I’ll stick to that one. Funny thing was, I was swimming in the ocean when it happened.”

Snorting out a laugh, Yevgeny steps back and picks up his bag, hooking it over his shoulder.

“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”

Touching his nose, Mr Gallagher points at him. “Nope.”

“Because it’s personal,” Yevgeny supposes.

“Bingo.”

Nodding to himself, Yevgeny accepts that he most likely isn’t going to get any extracurricular tips on how to fake a peg leg from his English teacher. Which is probably fair enough.

“That’s cool,” he says, and he really means it.

“Thank you, Yevgeny,” and Mr Gallagher sounds like he means it, too. “I’d like to think so.”

Starting to walk out of the classroom, Yevgeny changes his mind and turns back to look at his teacher again. There’s another thing he’s wondered about for a while, but never thought to ask before.

“Why do you always call me Yevgeny?”

Mr Gallagher has pulled his way back to his desk, and looks up from whatever he’s reading. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but,” Yevgeny shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “everyone calls me Yev, or Yevy, or Mr Milkovich.”

“Well,” Mr Gallagher seems to think it over for a second. “I’m guessing Mr Milkovich is your father.”

Yevgeny snorts and grins when Mr Gallagher’s eyebrows shoot up in response. He wouldn’t be so surprised if he knew Yevgeny’s dad at all.

“It’s a very nice name,” Mr Gallagher explains with a shrug. “And in a year when you move on to bigger, better things, likely is I won’t get the chance to say it very often, so guess I’m making the most of it. Why, am I saying it wrong?”

“Nope,” Yevgeny shakes his head. Mr Gallagher has consistently been the only other person in his life, beside his mom, who says his full name and never had trouble getting it right.

“Well, if you can keep a secret,” Mr Gallagher says, no longer looking like he’s out to tease him. ”Knew a Yevgeny once, a long time ago.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mr Gallagher nods, “old army buddy.”

Then he blinks, and Yevgeny thinks he gets it. It makes more sense than a bear, anyway. He is almost out the door when Mr Gallagher’s voice calls him back in again.

“Yevgeny,” he says, frowning slightly as he looks at him from across the room, “make sure you’re safe working with that peg leg, alright?”

“I’m not _actually_ gonna chop my leg off,” Yevgeny quips before thinking, but Mr Gallagher doesn’t seem to take offense.

“No, I know,” he says, glancing at his wristwatch, “I’m gonna talk to Mrs Tonya about it, work something out.”

Yevgeny stands up straighter, still not sure what it means but suddenly a lot more hopeful that Mr Gallagher might help him after all.

“Comfort and safety first,” he decides, and Yevgeny nods eagerly, “then we can focus on doing the book justice.”

“Thought you hadn’t read it, sir,” Yevgeny says, blinking innocently when Mr Gallagher narrows his eyes at him.

“I teach middle school English, Yevgeny, ‘course I’ve read it.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and I guess I'm kind of on [tumblr](http://loftec.tumblr.com) for now. And you are all amazing, hope you're having a lovely day :*


	5. The likes of you again

.

Part Five

**“The likes of you again”**

_Featuring_ Mickey Milkovich _as_ Mickey  
  


_Starring_

Yevgeny Milkovich as Yevgeny  
  


_And_

Svetlana Milkovich as Svetlana  
  


~*¨*~

“Ey losers, I’m home!” Mickey announces as he kicks the door shut behind him and hangs off his jacket.

“In here!”

Following the voice, Mickey makes his way through the living room to join his son in the kitchen.

“Hey, kid,” he says and grins when Yevgeny looks up from his homework to smile brightly at him. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Yevgeny shrugs, eyes back on the papers spread out on the table. “How was work?”

“Work is work,” Mickey says before even thinking about it, walking over to the fridge to grab himself a beer. “Good. Slow.”

He never knows what to say when Yevgeny asks about his day, not used to have anything to say or anyone asking to know, but the kid always seems pleased enough with his sparse replies. He nods now, eyes still on his reading.

Yevgeny is an easy kid – kind and carefree in a way Mickey never got the chance to be when he was thirteen – and he lets his old man off the hook for a lot of things, including his awkwardly gruff attempts at taking interest in his son’s schoolwork and all his nerdy little side-projects. If Yevgeny wanted to learn how to shoot a handgun, or clean up a crime scene, or do a half-decent stick and poke, Mickey wouldn’t have a problem. But this – this every day, _normal_ stuff – it makes him feel like he’s got nothing to give.

In his more morose moments, Mickey wonders if this is how his own dad felt when he failed to raise his kids.

Maybe. But the main difference between him and his own old man, Mickey has come to realize, is probably that while Terry went ahead and bulldozered his kids with his own personality and values, Mickey is happy to let his son take the lead. Yevgeny has no shortage of interests, and all Mickey has to do to keep up is make sure he’s being brought along for the ride.

It’s all of his own bullshit he really needs to work on.

Clearing his throat and sitting down at the table, Mickey twists the cap off his beer and takes a swig before giving it another go.

“I’m uh–,” he starts and winces at himself for being so useless at something that should be so easy, but feels like he really _has_ to say something now that Yevgeny’s looking at him. “I’m doing some work on a guy coming in Friday.”

Yevgeny’s whole face lights up with a bright smile, like he hasn’t changed one bit since he was five and looked at Mickey like he hung the moon.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mickey leans back in his chair and feels himself relax a little. “It’s just for a touch up, but it’s something, right?”

He didn’t really mean for it to be a question, but Yevgeny nods earnestly. “Definitely.”

“You doing homework?” he asks, gesturing with his bottle at the mess of papers laid out on the table.

“It’s for drama,” Yevgeny says, nodding thoughtfully at the sheet in his hands. “We had our first rehearsal yesterday and I’m just annotating the script for next week.”

“Annotating the script, huh?” Mickey tries, scratching at the side of his nose as he scrambles for something to say about that, and coming up empty. “Awesome. Where’s your mom?”

“Getting ready upstairs, I think,” Yevgeny says, again lost in his script.

Mickey frowns. “Getting ready for what?”

Speak of the devil and Svetlana sweeps through the door, dressed to the teeth and speaking even before she’s crossed the threshold.

“There is dinner in oven,” she says, rifling through a drawer and picking up her keys before walking past Yevgeny, dropping a loud kiss on the side of his bent head. “Be good, boys, I will be home nine, at latest.”

“The fuck you going?” Mickey asks, raising his voice towards the end of the sentence when she manages to walk out of the kitchen before he’s finished.

“Parent teacher night,” she doesn’t quite yell, but she sure as fuck doesn’t come back in the room to say it. “I told you.”

Mickey looks at Yevgeny, who is staring back at him apprehensively, shrugging when Mickey raises his eyebrows.

“I thought you knew,” he says, and now he looks concerned and Mickey feels like shit.

He takes another quick drink before leaving the beer behind when he gets up from the table.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says and gestures towards the living room, “I’m just gonna…”

Not knowing exactly what he’s going to do, he just nods to himself and walks off to find his ex-wife putting her coat on by the front door.

“The fuck you doing not telling me this shit?” he asks, keeping his voice down so Yevgeny won’t hear him through the house.

“I told you,” Svetlana insists.

“No, you fucking–,” Mickey bites off his sentence, clenching his fists in frustration. “How the fuck can I do anything right if you don’t tell me _shit_ about what’s goin’ on? I wanna know these things!”

“You want to go to parent teacher meeting,” Svetlana deadpans, raising an amused eyebrow in challenge. “You know what this is, yes?”

“Yeah, I know!” Mickey huffs. “And they fucking suck, but that don’t mean I don’t wanna go.”

She looks down at him, not really needing that extra inch of her heels to make him feel small, and narrows her eyes. She still hasn’t forgiven him, not when it comes down to it.

“I’m _trying_ , okay?” he says, wincing when his voice wavers with desperation.

She appraises him for another moment, and then seems to come to a decision.

“We can not both go,” she says and opens the door, hesitating on the threshold to look back at him. “Next time can be your turn, yes?”

Mickey rolls his eyes, wanting to argue that it’s fucking ridiculous to refuse to leave a thirteen-year-old kid alone for two hours, but he recognizes the olive branch for what it is and accepts her offer with a nod.

And if the thought of going to one of these things _alone_ fills his heart with a kind of unholy dread he’s never felt staring down the barrel of a gun, it’s not something Svetlana needs to know.

The door closing behind her, Mickey takes a moment to himself as he sighs and wipes a hand over his eyes, pinching at the bridge of his nose. All things considered, he honestly wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here – him and his ex-wife chafing against each other in this old house as he tries to re-integrate himself into their daily lives. But he wonders how much longer it’s going to be like this, thing after thing after fucking thing reminding him of how much he’s missed and never will get back.

“I’m sorry,” Yevgeny says behind him, making Mickey snap his head up and turn around. “I thought I told you, I didn’t think you’d care.”

“‘Course I care,” Mickey sighs, wincing when it only makes Yevgeny look more upset.

He keeps messing up, but Yevgeny still seems affected by it and that selfishly makes Mickey feel a little bit better about the whole thing. Or, at least, less alone in his mess. He may have missed a lot, but he hasn’t lost the one thing that truly matters to him. Yevgeny is trying just as hard as he is, and Mickey hopes that means he won’t give up on his old man any time soon.

“Told you, don’t worry about it,” he says, ruffling Yevgeny’s unruly hair before resting an arm over his shoulders and leading him back to the kitchen. “Sorry we keep arguing about stupid shit, kid, you shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

“It’s okay,” Yevgeny assures him with a careful grin, pushing up his glasses, “I know you don’t mean it usually.”

“Fantastic,” Mickey mutters, playfully shoving his giggling son in the direction of the table before he walks over to the oven. “My parents fight all the time, but they only mean it sometimes… tell that to the PTA and see if I’m invited at all, next time.”

“They don’t need to know,” Yevgeny decides with such natural conviction that Mickey feels a twinge of pride in his ol’ Milkovich heart.

“Good man,” he says, peering in at the casserole hidden in the dark oven. He really needs to fix that broken light. “Fuck the police, right?”

“Well,” Yevgeny huffs, rolling his eyes when Mickey straightens up and raises his eyebrows at him. “More like ‘never mind the PTA’, but the basic sentiment is more or less the same, I guess.”

“How this gay dumbass managed to make such a smart kid, I’ll never know,” Mickey sighs as he takes out the casserole, grinning to himself when he hears Yevgeny laugh behind him.

“So,” he says, feeling himself caught on a second wind as he sets the casserole down on the table and goes to dig out two plates and a couple of forks, “tell me about what’s going on in your little drama club this year, you still gotta deal with that wannabe Pavarotti guy stepping all over your cues last semester?”

“Nick,” Yevgeny snorts and nods, moving his papers aside to make room for his plate. “We haven’t even started rehearsals yet, and somehow it’s worse. He keeps pestering me to spend more time reading together, but I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have a problem if he just learned his damned lines in his own damned time.”

Mickey barely manages to hide a smirk at his son’s careful cursing, removing the lid off the casserole as he sits down to eat.

“You tell him, kid,” he says, and is suddenly struck by a slightly surreal thought. “Ey, you realize I’m finally gonna get to see you do your thing for real, this year?”

Yevgeny smiles at him. “Yeah.”

“Really been lookin’ forward to it,” Mickey admits, not sure if he ever made this clear to his son before. That sometimes it was all he ever had when he was away, looking forward to all the stupid shit he’d get to share with Yevgeny again, one day.

“Me too,” Yevgeny says, blowing carefully at the steaming chunk of pasta on his fork. “Even if we flop, at least it’s gonna be better than me monologuing at you in visitation.”

“Hey!” Mickey protests. “Better production value, maybe, but ain’t shit that can top your one-man production of ‘Dystopia!-” he lets his fork rest on the plate so he can jazz up the rest of the sentence, “‘-The Hungry Maze of–’ what was it?”

“Hungry Maze Game of–,” Yevgeny reminds him, cutting himself off with a grin when Mickey nods and picks it back up again.

“The Hungry Maze Game of Divergent Death!” he says, earning himself a proud thumbs up from his son. “What a performance, fucking riveting. Whole damned block thought so.”

Yevgeny looks a little embarrassed by the praise, but mostly pleased. “Honestly, it was a heavily abridged version. I had to compress a forty-five minute show to about half the time.”

“Well, between you and me,” Mickey says and leans forward a little, “maybe that thing needed a good abridge-ing to go down.”

“It _was_ kinda all over the place, wasn’t it?” Yevgeny giggles. “It’s gonna be better this year.”

“‘Cause my gold-for-brains kid is anno-fuckin’-tating the script, fuck yeah,” Mickey decides, pointing his fork at Yevgeny and feeling almighty pleased when he rolls his eyes at the proclamation. “Can’t miss.”

“The actual show didn’t have very good production value, either,” Yevgeny continues to ponder last year’s performance, ignoring Mickey’s enthusiastic attempt at a pep talk. “I hope Mrs Tonya won’t let them get away with being ‘minimalistic’ this time.”

“That a euphemism for something?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny says, scrunching up his nose, “lazy and cheap.”

Mickey laughs. “No room for minimalism in theater, huh?”

“In Europe, maybe,” Yevgeny says with a dismissive wave of his fork. “In St Mary’s middle school drama club as lead by one Yevgeny Milkovich? Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until tomorrow ❤!


	6. In the ghetto

.

Part Six

**“In the ghetto”**

_Featuring_ Ian Gallagher _as_ Ian  
  


_Starring_

Ella Simone as Ella  
Tonya Young as Tonya  
Daniel Ford as Ford  
  


_With_

Svetlana Milkovich as one of Ian’s Top Five Scary Moms  
  


_And_

Marjorie’s Granny’s Snickerdoodles  
  


~*¨*~

As soon as the first stampede toward the baked goods peters out, Ian sidles up to the table to consider what’s been left behind. A couple of stale donuts from the teacher’s lounge, a batch of Tim’s mom’s infamous vegan brownies, and there, teetering on the edge of an otherwise desolated paper plate; one lone piece of Marjorie’s granny’s snickerdoodles. The holy snack-grail of St Mary’s PTA meetings.

Ian is just about to reach out for it when another person blocks his way and drops a napkin over the snickerdoodle, before snatching it up and disappearing it down a brown leather purse in one swift move – leaving only crumbs behind on the plate.

His hand still halfway extended, and his mouth probably hanging open in surprise, Ian looks up into Mrs Milkovich’s unreadable face.

“Peace offering,” she says, and snaps her purse shut still staring Ian dead in the eye, like she’s daring him to call her out on stealing snickerdoodles. He’s maybe a little miffed about getting beaten to the punch, but fair’s fair and she got to it before him, and there isn’t a world imaginable where he’d ever say anything about a neighbor hoarding cakes off a PTA meeting.

He picks up a chocolate glazed donut instead, raising it at her in a kind of toast before taking a bite.

“My Yevgeny,” she says, clearly not looking to waste time on smalltalk before starting the compulsory interrogation. “He does well in your class, still. Yes?”

“Yes,” Ian nods eagerly, swallowing down the half-chewed bite of donut so he won’t speak with food in his mouth. Mrs Milkovich holds a high-ranking spot on his Top 5 Scary Moms list, after all. “Yeah, absolutely. He maybe doesn’t participate as much as recommended, but I’m not really concerned about that.”

Mrs Milkovich stares at him for a second before seemingly coming to a decision. “I will talk to him.”

“I wouldn’t–,” Ian starts, but realizes his mistake right away. Mrs Milkovich is most likely not a woman who appreciates advice on what she should or shouldn’t do, especially not when it comes to raising her son. “Yeah, okay, just–, he’s a clever kid, he probably reads more than anyone else in his year, this stuff comes easy to him. He just forgets to show it sometimes and I can’t always be there to prompt him into actually _doing_ the work, not just knowing it.”

“I will talk to him,” Mrs Milkovich says again, but there’s a certain tinge of parental pride to her sharp tone this time.

“He wrote a very impressive report on Crime and Punishment the other month,” Ian tells her, feeling oddly like he has to prove himself to her by recounting some of her son’s accomplishments. “Though one might argue the validity of reading Dostoyevsky in the original language for an English assignment… and he made some thought-provoking comments on the translation that I couldn’t really verify, for obvious reasons.”

“They were correct, and his own,” Mrs Milkovich adds when Ian raises a curious eyebrow at her. “He speaks Russian like American buffalo, but he is good reader.”

“It’s an interesting choice for a teenager,” Ian points out, not doubting for a second that it’s a choice Yevgeny would do, but liking the defensively proud tilt to Mrs Milkovich’s chin he gets for even daring to question it. “Read it once for a classic lit class in college and I could barely get through it, myself.”

“Library has limited selection of Russian books,” Mrs Milkovich explains, appearing to relax a little when Ian just smiles and waits for her to continue. “We have little book club, sometimes. I will read in English and he will read in Russian. I would maybe buy him more modern books, but–”

Ian nods, sparing her the discomfort of finishing that sentence. He knows exactly how it feels to be both proud of the things you have in life and feeling like it’s never enough whenever you compare it to others. He also tries his best to never play favorites with his students, but kids like Yevgeny make this very difficult.

“Archer Heights?” he asks and smiles when Mrs Milkovich purses her lips together and narrows her eyes at him. “Chicago Lawn is closer to where I live now, but I always used to go to Archer Heights with my brothers and sisters as a kid, growin’ up on South Homan.”

He knows Mrs Milkovich obviously isn’t native to Chicago, but she married into a family living one street over from Ian’s childhood home. He recognizes the very second she realizes what he’s trying to tell her; that he knows what it’s like, and that he won’t judge her for where she’s from or where she is now.

“He likes Archer Heights,” she admits, “says they have better ambiance.”

Ian grins and gestures vaguely at the school aula with his donut.

“We’ve got a library here, I’m sure you know,” he says. “Got ambiance for shit, but I can suggest titles for when they order new books. The general demand for foreign language stuff isn’t great, but I’d be happy to pass on any suggestions you might have.”

“I can order books in Russian through school library,” Mrs Milkovich clarifies in her deadpan accent, lips quirking up in a pleased smirk when Ian nods.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, “it’s what it’s there for, providing the students with the books they need.”

“You have opened Pandora’s box, Mr Gallagher,” Mrs Milkovich says with a quick smile, “Yevgeny will be very pleased to know this.”

“My pleasure,” Ian nods, “and the library will only be better for it, I bet.”

“Naturally,” she says and nods back at him in thanks before she starts moving away.

“Mrs Milkovich,” Ian calls out, making her turn back to look at him with an eyebrow raised in question. “I’m not sure how much your son has told you–”

“My son tells me everything,” she decides, but Ian could swear there’s an amused glint in her eye telling him she knows how preposterous that sounds. No thirteen-year-old tells their mother _everything_. Not even exemplary kids with particularly Russian mothers like Yevgeny.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Ian says with a brief smile. “As you know, Yevgeny wants to work with a peg leg for this semester’s production. He asked me to coach him with it and while I think he came to me thinkin’ I could give him some pointers on his acting, I actually think it’s a good idea for him to have someone around who can help him with it.”

“Is it dangerous?” Mrs Milkovich asks, frowning as she puts her finger right on Ian’s main concern.

“He’ll essentially be tying his leg up and walking around like that for at least an hour straight when it gets to showtime,” Ian says and makes a face. “Not sure about _dangerous_ , but he could get hurt if he isn’t careful.”

“Careful is maybe not his strongest suit,” Mrs Milkovich admits.

“Don’t gotta be me,” Ian says and waves his increasingly sticky, half-eaten donut in the general direction of the other teachers present. “But I’ve got both personal and professional experience with physical therapy, and I’d be happy to coach him and supervise at dress rehearsals. ‘Course, only as long as you approve.”

“Alright,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “I approve and if he gets hurt, I hold you responsible. _Ponyali?_ ”

The way she says it, ’I’ll hold you responsible’ seems pretty much interchangeable with ‘I’ll bash your head in’.

“I can accept that,” he says and nods. “ _Yasno, ponyatno_.”

Her lips quirk up in an amused half-smile at his garbled attempt to speak the little Russian he learned from a friend years ago, far away from home, and gives him a slightly too appreciative once-over.

“Good,” she says and holds his gaze for a moment before walking away.

Ian eats the rest of his donut and looks around the room, searching for someone he can idle away the rest of the short break with, and protect him from having to interact with some of the more demanding parents. Overprotective Russian mothers alternating between threats and flirtatious looks he can handle; it’s the micromanaging helicopter parents he’s really looking to dodge if he can.

Pretending not to notice Alicia Muntz’s father trying to catch his eye from across the room, Ian hides behind a group of his colleagues, huddled together by the coffee thermos.

“–and she’s here alone again,” Ford says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Word is her husband is back in the picture, though. See how long that lasts.”

Ian frowns and glances around the room, trying to piece together who they’re talking about.

“Do we even know what he does for a living?” Tonya asks, huffing when the others shake their heads. “The things I have heard about that family, if even half of it is true it’s a miracle the boy came out as well-adjusted as he is.”

“Who?” Ian asks, feeling slightly uncomfortable about the whole situation when the group’s focus is turned on him.

“Yev Milkovich,” Ella informs him quietly.

“Come on,” Ian huffs, “I wouldn’t believe anything you hear about the Milkoviches, people have been talking shit about them since before I was born and they’re nothing as bad as all that.”

“You’ve met Yev’s dad?” Ford asks, still sounding way too gleeful to be gossiping this blatantly about one of their students.

Where Ian grew up, _everybody_ knew about the Milkoviches. Ian would see the kids around at school and the father, Terry, drinking with Frank and the other boozehounds at The Alibi, but he always knew to stay clear of them. That the Milkoviches were the difference between a bar fight and a shoot-out, between getting thrown in the drunk-tank and two years in penitentiary. Between sporadic petty theft and armed robbery, between possessing the odd illegal firearms and knowing exactly how to best dispose of a body.

Having been told to stay clear of them, Ian never had more than one or two run-ins with the Milkoviches in his youth. But even when Mandy Milkovich told her brothers that he’d raped her (an outrageous lie, his gay ass had clenched up so badly when she tried to kiss him he’d needed days to properly recover) and they eventually caught up with him and beat the shit out of him, he’d still never really thought of them as any better or worse than the rest of his neighborhood – only ever as another side of it. A hard place full of clever, dependable, hard people all with their own ways of getting by.

When Yevgeny became his student two years ago, Ian vaguely connected the dots that this was the new generation of his notorious neighbors, but he let the kid make his own impression on him – independent of his family name – and Ian had never even tried to figure out which of the many Milkovich brothers and cousins were supposed to be Mrs Milkovich’s absent husband. Yevgeny is hardly the only kid in his class being raised by a single parent, but just like it would when Ian was a kid, the name Milkovich is immediately assumed to be the difference between an absent father and the worst case scenario.

“No,” Ian says and frowns, struggling to find a way to express why this whole conversation rubs him the wrong way. “But I grew up just around the corner and, I don’t–, we don’t know anything about their lives, is all I’m saying. Kinda unnecessary to assume the worst.”

“I don’t have to assume,” Tonya scoffs, clearly not interested in re-adjusting her opinion, “the man’s absence speaks for itself.”

“Scuttlebutt says he’s been away for at least five years,” Ford says, not picking up on Ian’s discomfort at all as he nods knowingly at him. “Just upped and completely abandoned his son before the kid hit double digits.”

Clenching his teeth, Ian is pressing his lips together to keep from reminding Ford – as he has many times before – that there’s a difference between the army and the navy, and anyway maybe he should reconsider trying to bond with Ian by using military terms likely to do little else than trigger his PTSD. Not that it would. Ian’s got more of a handle on himself these days than to let himself be triggered in any way by an over-eager Physics teacher who thinks being in the reserves means they have something in common. They’re _not friends_ , and Ian doesn’t like the way Ford always tries to cast himself as some kind of truth-teller, when really he’s just a hopeless busybody.

Ian tries to never make assumptions about his students’ home lives, especially since many of them come from neighborhoods just the same as his own, and families as fucked up as his own. Fucked up doesn’t mean _bad_ , though, and an absent father doesn’t automatically mean a shitty childhood, or a shitty life.

But it sure isn’t something he’d ever wish for any of his students. He knows all the ins and outs of having worthless parents, and it pains him on a deeply personal level to think that Yevgeny might have to deal with even half the shit Ian and his siblings had to live through, growing up. It’s times like these when it’s painfully obvious that none of his mandatory psychotherapy has ever gone as far as trying to deal with any of his pre-army issues as thoroughly as it did his PTSD and bipolar.

Guess the army wasn’t looking to pay for Ian fixing his broken childhood and, anyway, Ian still has a hard time thinking of it as _broken_. But seeing it reflected in some of his students, and taking stock of the almost visceral reaction he’s having to the idea of Yevgeny growing up with any of the abuse he suffered as a kid, he can’t help but wonder exactly how much shit he’s got swept under the rug of his messed up mind.

“Boils my blood,” Tonya huffs, shaking her head. “Has he ever been to a single school event, or premiere? That sweet child works his butt off for the theater and the oaf doesn’t even bother to show up two nights of the year. I don’t care for his reasons or what he does for a living, I have all I need right there to tell you the man is not a father, he is a deadbeat loser with–”

“Hey,” Ella cuts her off with a wince, glancing around the room to make sure no one is listening in on their less than appropriate discussion. “We all have issues, Ton, don’t take them out on the kids. I’ve never heard Yev complain about his home situation, have you?”

Ian shakes his head and looks around at the others when they do the same.

“So maybe don’t jump to conclusions,” Ella decides, lowering her voice when the principal walks back up on the stage at the front of the room. “Anyway, there’s nothing we can do about an absent father, other than make sure Yev’s got our support, right?”

Ian throws Ella a thankful look as the principal tries to recapture everyone’s attention and return them to their seats. Waiting for all the parents to settle down, Ella takes him by the elbow and they move together to the back of the room to stand by the wall for the second half of the meeting.

He is glad Ella put a definite end to the conversation, because she’s right – it’s none of their business, and there’s nothing they can do about it. Still, as he tries to listen to the prolonged drone of opinionated drivel itemized over the next forty-five minutes, he can’t quite shut out the new thoughts rushing through his mind.

Memories of Monica coming and going and always leaving her children worse off than they were without her, and of Frank stealing their money and spending it on booze and drugs, trashing the house and passing out in his own vomit on the couch if they forgot to deadbolt all the windows.

He has long since given up on giving meaning to _why_ , but his parents always played favorites with him. Monica liked pointing out all the ways they were the same – how they only had each other when the rest of the world couldn’t understand them – and Frank never beat on anyone else but him.

But he’d had his _real family_ , his brothers and sisters, and they had taken care of each other when their parents couldn’t. So the problem had never really been that Frank and Monica kept leaving, but that they kept coming back.

And he doesn’t want to judge without having all the facts, but he has a hard time thinking of any scenario where a guy can justify the abandonment of a child and then have any kind of honest intentions when he suddenly pops back up in his life, close to half a decade later.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Music](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=J0ME3n-oQEmnIhtBWV7mbQ), and [Tumblr](http://loftec.tumblr.com), and lots of ❤ to you for reading.


	7. Long John Silver

. 

Part Seven

**“Long John Silver”**

_Featuring the long awaited return of_  
Yevgeny Milkovich  
_in his double role as_  
Yevgeny _and_ Long John Silver

_Starring_

Ian Gallagher as Mr Gallagher  
Tonya Young as Mrs Tonya  
Nick being Nick  
Livia Amorim as Livia

_With_

A Distant Gaggle of Youths as The Drama Club

_And_

Mickey Milkovich as Dad

~*¨*~

“How’s that?” Mr Gallagher asks and tugs on one of the straps holding Yevgeny’s left leg in place. “Too tight?”

“Nope,” Yevgeny says, re-adjusting his grip on the edge of the stage and attempting a small hop forward. He wobbles and almost smacks Mr Gallagher in the face with his knee as he struggles to regain his balance.

“Whoa, easy,” Mr Gallagher huffs and holds out his hands, close enough so Yevgeny could grab on to him if he needs it. He is still kneeling on the floor by his feet, and observes him critically as Yevgeny twists carefully from side to side, actually checking if it hurts anywhere this time.

“My foot is getting cold,” he admits, and wiggles his toes in his wooly sock.

“Yeah, we’ve basically cut off the blood flow from your knee down,” Mr Gallagher mutters and shuffles a little closer, glancing up at Yevgeny and waiting for him to nod before he carefully loosens the top strap a little. “Better?”

Yevgeny nods again, twisting so he can look down at his bent leg.

“Won’t people see my foot if it’s not pulled tighter?”

“Don’t think so, the pants are very baggy,” Mr Gallagher says, leaning back a little to get a better idea. He sounds like he means it, even though Yevgeny suspects that Mr Gallagher’s priorities are slightly different than his own. He’s even suggested that maybe Yevgeny should reconsider the whole prop, hinting that perhaps going full bondage might be a bit too ambitious for a middle school theater production.

Yevgeny won that argument by sheer stubbornness, he thinks, ending with Mr Gallagher insisting that he supervise him every step of the way, through practice and all the way to opening night.

“Balance is gonna get better once you’ve got the peg leg on,” Mr Gallagher says when Yevgeny attempts another wobbly hop forward. “But it probably won’t ever get comfortable. Not even with the kneepad.”

“Can I try it on now?” Yevgeny asks, making the innocently hopeful face that always seems to work on his dad when he wants something he knows he’s not supposed to have.

He sighs when Mr Gallagher shakes his head. Just like his mom.

“Get used to the harness first,” Mr Gallagher absently repeats himself from every conversation they’ve had about this – probably knowing full well that Yevgeny hasn’t actually forgotten their agreement – and checks the strap enclosing Yevgeny’s knee. “Ten minutes today, ten minutes on Friday, then we’ll see about next week. Here.”

He holds up the purposefully scuffed-up wooden crutch Miss Giertz patiently helped Yevgeny put together in shop last week, and sits back on his heels as Yevgeny leans his weight on it and takes a more confident hop-step forward.

“It’s kinda weird,” he says, glancing quickly over at Mr Gallagher when he realizes that he said that out loud. Mr Gallagher just hums and nods, though, seemingly more interested in keeping his eyes on Yevgeny’s bent leg than feeling offended by his thoughtless comment.

Maybe, generally, Mr Gallagher isn’t the kind of person who gets easily offended by thoughtless comments. Testing this theory, Yevgeny decides to risk asking a slightly more intrusive question.

“Did you have to do this?”

“Tie my leg up and dress like a pirate?” Mr Gallagher asks, and the fact that he’s probably messing with Yevgeny is only betrayed by a barely noticeable quirk of his lips. “No.”

“No, not–, ugh,” Yevgeny says and rolls his eyes, but feels encouraged when Mr Gallagher drops his serious front and grins at him. “I meant–”

“Hey, Milkovich!”

They both look up at the stage to see the rest of the drama club staring back at them. Mrs Tonya looks mildly exasperated and most of Yevgeny’s friends range from bored to annoyed, and like a lighthouse smack in the middle of the group is Nick. Acting like he doesn’t even notice that he just interrupted everybody’s work for whatever dumb reason, he grins wider when Yevgeny’s eyes land on him.

“Looking good!”

Yevgeny scowls, opting to stare disapprovingly at him until Mrs Tonya redirects the attention back to her and tells Nick to ’mind his own business and focus’.

‘Dumb reason’ was being overly generous, Yevgeny decides – Nick is just being an ass, like always. If he only made an effort to make fun of Yevgeny in any sort of intelligent way, maybe Yevgeny would find it in himself to give as good as he got. As it is, most of the time he doesn’t even understand what Nick is trying to do, other than being loud, annoying, and generally disruptive.

Yevgeny shakes it off and shifts his grip on the crutch a little, taking another step. Mr Gallagher stands, stiffly pulling at his left leg with his hands to help it out as he straightens. It reminds Yevgeny of what he was trying to say before he got interrupted.

“I meant,” he says again, hopping another step forward and looking up at Mr Gallagher as he starts walking backwards in front of him, close enough to catch him if he falls, “did you ever have to walk around like this without your new leg?”

“Yeah,” Mr Gallagher confirms, eyes locked on Yevgeny’s feet as they slowly move along the cleared orchestra pit, ”took a while before I got it.”

“Why?”

“Why…” Mr Gallagher repeats and makes a face as he thinks it over. “Wound’s gotta heal. Fitting, manufacturing… money. Don’t wear it all the time either, so you gotta know what to do with yourself without it. Turn?”

Yevgeny nods and starts making a slow U-turn, pivoting around his crutch in little hops as Mr Gallagher backs along with him. He has a hard time imagining how he’d deal with suddenly not having the use of both legs, first surviving having one of them cut off and then relearning your whole life around it not being there anymore.

Starting middle school, Yevgeny and his friends would speculate about their new English teacher’s mysteriously sporadic limp, relishing in all the wild and contradictory rumors they could pick up on the topic. He’s not so interested in ‘how’ or ‘where’ or ‘why’, anymore, and he suddenly finds that the wish to respect Mr Gallagher’s privacy has grown stronger than his curiosity.

“Doing okay?” Mr Gallagher asks, watching him intently when Yevgeny looks up at the question. He probably mistook Yevgeny’s fit of contemplation for discomfort or pain.

“Yeah,” he says with a quick smile, happy to keep going for a while longer. “My dad says I’m a wimp about pain, trust me you’ll know it if I need a break.”

“There’s nothing ‘wimpy’ about knowing your limit,” Mr Gallagher says, and he’s frowning when Yevgeny looks up at him again. “Does your dad say that kinda stuff to you a lot?”

Yevgeny huffs out a laugh and nods.

“Yeah,” he says, a little out of breath. Walking around like this is tougher than he thought. “He also says stoicism is for pu– um, weak people, so… pretty sure he meant it as a compliment.”

Mr Gallagher is still frowning, and Yevgeny wonders if he said something wrong. Maybe he should explain that his dad says a lot of stupid stuff just for the sake of saying them, and a lot of the time he says bad stuff like they’re good and good stuff like they’re bad, and maybe that’s confusing when you put it like that, but Yevgeny has never been confused about anything his dad does or says.

His dad is honest and smart and funny and lets Yevgeny have his own thoughts and opinions about things, even when he makes a big deal over any silly or insignificant little thing they might disagree on. It’s just the way he is, and Yevgeny loves him for all of it. Even when he’s ranting about Yevgeny putting sliced bananas on his cheese sandwiches, dramatically campaigning for the kitchen to make it a punishable offense and only getting more riled up when Yevgeny laughs at his uproar.

Even when he had to go away for four years and it was really hard not seeing him every day.

Many of Yevgeny’s teachers get weird when it comes to his dad, so he has learned not to talk about him to people who don’t know him. For some reason, he always figured Mr Gallagher would be different.

There’s a loud crash from the stage and they both stop to look over at the source of it. Nick is lying bowled over in a pile of prop cutlases, whooping and waving when he notices them staring.

“He’s so annoying,” Yevgeny mutters and starts walking again.

Mr Gallagher is still looking over at Nick and Yevgeny almost hops right into him before he catches himself and starts moving along. “Does he mess with you a lot?”

Rolling his eyes, Yevgeny resists the urge to say _yes_ , and then have a little rant about how uselessly ineffective Nick is at ‘messing’ with _anyone_.

“No, guess not,” he reluctantly decides to be fair. “He’s just always _around_ , showing off and making an ass of himself.”

Mr Gallagher glances over at the stage again – where Yevgeny is sure Nick is still acting out, judging by the sound of Mrs Tonya’s increasingly shrill commands to ‘settle down’ – and the corners of his normally stern lips twist into a vague smile.

“Maybe he’s trying to tell you something,” he says, looking back at Yevgeny with an awkward grimace. “Kinda like a peacock, you know?”

Yevgeny has no idea what he means by that, but he’s not about to admit as much to his own English teacher.

“Sure,” he says instead and shakes his head, not for a second buying Mr Gallagher’s pitiful attempt to explain the inexplicable, “he’s trying to tell me how annoying he is.”

Mr Gallagher purses his lips together and looks down at their feet again, and Yevgeny suddenly remembers that he’s not talking to his friends right now and maybe shouldn’t be so obviously antagonistic toward another student.

“Sorry,” he says, “that was probably mean.”

“Yeah,” Mr Gallagher hums noncommittally and looks up, but his line of sight does a kind of detour around Yevgeny’s head before he lands his gaze on something far behind his left ear.

“Listen,” he says, clearly uncomfortable but also intent on giving Yevgeny a piece of advice, for some reason. “I’m not condoning whatever it is Nick’s trying to do, you know, acting the way he does, but maybe try talking to him? Let him know you’re not interested and maybe he’ll back off.”

Yevgeny scowls at the floor and takes a slightly too zealous step forward with his crutch, hopping two quick steps to catch up to it. He doesn’t like the idea that _he’s_ the one who’s got to tell Nick about how no one finds his idiocy funny, ever. _Anyone_ could tell him that and, anyway, he can’t help thinking that it should be on Nick to figure that out for himself.

“He should already know I don’t find his clowning interesting,” he mutters defiantly, blushing slightly when he hears himself. He sounds like a petulant kid.

Mr Gallagher sighs, but Yevgeny thinks he wouldn’t have noticed the discreet show of exasperation if he hadn’t been standing three feet in front of him. The English teacher usually appears like he’s got an endless supply of patience when he stands at the bow of his classroom.

“Yeah, ‘suppose,” he says.

“That’s time!” Mrs Tonya suddenly announces to the group on stage, raising her voice as she tries to gather them all back in after a wildly unsuccessful reading of the first act. “Well, that was... terrible, wasn’t it?”

This is mostly met with giggles and wholehearted agreement from the troupe, and sincere promises that they will be more prepared ahead of Friday.

Yevgeny hops over to grab on to the stage, and Mr Gallagher sets aside the crutch before he’s crouching down to carefully start loosening the straps, pulling off the harness and easing Yevgeny’s foot back on solid ground.

“Ow, shit,” he huffs when it stings and tingles up his calf until it feels like the muscle is trying to crawl off his leg. “Cramp.”

“Sit,” Mr Gallagher says, patting the stage as he stands and Yevgeny hoists himself up to perch on the edge of it, feet dangling. “This okay?”

Yevgeny nods when Mr Gallagher takes his left foot to brace it against his own shoulder, carefully leaning in to stretch out the calf. The stinging pain immediately starts to subside.

“Regretting your artistic vision yet?” he asks, smiling when Yevgeny grins and shakes his head.

“Thanks for helping me,” he says, wiggling his toes to try it out as Mr Gallagher guides his leg to flex in a couple of controlled knee-bends. “I’m pretty sure my mom would’ve refused to let me do this at all if you hadn’t talked to her about it.”

“Yeah, well,” Mr Gallagher starts, nodding when he seems confident in that Yevgeny hasn’t permanently injured himself, letting go of his leg. “You’re welcome.”

“Yev!”

Twisting to look back at his cast-mates, he sees Livia waving her script at him.

“Come up here and settle something, will ya?” she says. He rolls up on the stage and scrambles to his feet, feeling a little unsteady for a second before he regains his balance and walks over to the others.

She wants to do a goofy accent, turns out, cue a five minute discussion Yevgeny is pretty sure he won by the end of it, but probably will have to win again by next practice. Packing up and saying goodbye to Mrs Tonya when they leave, Yevgeny looks around the empty auditorium as he backs out of the side door after his friends. Mr Gallagher must have gone back to his classroom, because he’s nowhere to be seen.

“You on the bus?” Nick drops back to walk next to him across the yard. He lives vaguely in the same direction as Yevgeny and shares about a third of his bus route. A third too much, in Yevgeny’s opinion.

“Nah,” he says and takes the opportunity to start peeling off from the group. “My dad’s picking me up today. See you tomorrow!”

“See ya,” Nick agrees with a shrug as the rest of the group echoes him, waving after Yevgeny when he walks toward the parking lot.

He finds his dad sitting on the trunk of his beat up Chevrolet, flicking away the stump of his cigarette when he notices Yevgeny coming over.

“Hey squirt,” he says, smoke billowing around his face and the car bucking under him as he hops off it. “Still in one piece?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny grins and tries to duck out of the way when his dad gets close enough to ruffle a hand through his hair. “Only tried it out today, got the harness fitted and tried walking around with the crutch. Mr Gallagher won’t let me work with the peg leg until next week.”

“Oh yeah?” His dad raises his eyebrows in that comically surprised way of his, taking Yevgeny by the shoulders to gently shove him towards the passenger side of the car as they talk. “Sounds like a real fucking stick in the mud.”

“He’s not,” Yevgeny says and rolls his eyes at his dad over the roof of the car. “He knows what he’s doing, with physical therapy and all that stuff. He’s really cool.”

“Uh-huh,” his dad hums and opens the door on his side, grinning quickly at Yevgeny before he gets in the car saying; “guess we’re gonna have to listen to Mr Gallagher then, don’t we?”

Opening his door, Yevgeny catches sight of the man himself at the other end of the parking lot, standing by his own car and staring intently in their direction.

“Bye, Mr Gallagher!” Yevgeny calls out and smiles when Mr Gallagher holds up a hand in a silent reply.

“Get in the car, Long John,” his dad complains, reaching over to tug at the hem of Yevgeny’s jacket. “Gonna break out in hives if I gotta stay this close to a school much longer.”

“Aye Aye, Captain Flint,” Yevgeny salutes and climbs inside, buckling up as his dad turns out of the parking lot and tears past Mr Gallagher still staring after them as they drive away.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SLOWLY GETTING THERE ❤
> 
> [Music](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=sAn3u63xTQmVoRNR6bTjrw) / [Tumblr](http://loftec.tumblr.com) / [Shiny cutlases!](https://youtu.be/bVKJscj58DI)


	8. What a wonderful world

.

Part Eight

**“What a wonderful world”**

_Featuring_ Mickey Milkovich _as_ Mickey  
  


_With Special Guest Appearance by_

Ian Gallagher as Mr Gallagher (later referred to as Ian)  
  


_And_

Mandy Milkovich as Mandy  
  


~*¨*~

Checking his hair in a darkened shop window, Mickey decides it’s looking decent enough and strides up to the bar across the street, shouldering his way through the crowd smoking by the open door. There are a couple of pride flags dangling in one of the dusty windows and a mess of posters and pamphlets about community stuff by the coat racks, but that’s about it for signifiers that this place is generally agreed to be a Gay Bar. Mickey is pretty sure the owner never intended for it to happen, but instead just found himself serving one too many Appletinis and thinking ‘hey, I’m seeing a pattern here’, and decided to lean into it.

Mickey likes it. It’s close to his work and a lot more his speed than pretty much any of the places he’s tried in Boystown, or hooking up with randos on Grindr for that matter. They’re probably all the same randos – here, there, and online – but somehow it feels a little more selective to go about the whole process in a low-key homo bar like this one.

He orders a scotch and takes a seat at the bar, the back of some dude’s broad shoulders blocking off his left and two empty stools to his right. He’s got no real hopes or plans for the night, anything from just the whiskey to maybe a quick BJ in the crapper before he heads back to the house would be okay by him.

Tossing back most of his drink, he looks past his neighbor’s toned arm and lazily reads the label of the beer held loosely by a freckled hand. He contemplates for a second if he should try it with his next order, but then notices the ‘non-alcoholic’ asterisk peeking out from under the guy’s thumb. Discarding his plans with a scoff, he turns his attention to the wall of bottles behind the bar instead, absently perusing the selection as he lets the scotch settle and take the edge off his day.

He got in a fight with Svetlana again, this morning, completely forgetting that Yevgeny was still in the house until they heard him shout a quick ‘goodbye’ and disappear out the front door, not even asking if either of them could drive him to school. The rest of the day more or less followed suit, with idiotic phone calls, demanding clients, and one hungover asshole puking all over one of the back rooms just twenty minutes into his session.

The guy left with one half of a rose on his bicep and a promise to be completely sober next time. Mickey would’ve booted his ass and told him to never come back if he’d been his client, but Chano always did have more patience with the really hopeless cases.

“Hey,” a voice to his left says, breaking him out of his thoughts, “you’re Yevgeny’s dad.”

Twisting back to glare at the non-alcoholic guy on his left, the broad shoulders have turned around and disturbingly turned out to be Mr Gallagher. Mickey has only seen him once or twice at a distance since he got out, but the guy is hard to mistake.

“Yeah?” he admits, raising an eyebrow. He would’ve thought it to be some kind of courtesy code to not engage with your students’ parents if you bump into them at an – albeit unofficial – gay bar. Not this guy though, looking like he’s gearing up to have a full on parent-teacher performance appraisal, right here, right now.

“Ian Gallagher,” Mr Gallagher says, like Mickey wouldn’t know, obviously intent on really laboring the point as he continues; “I’m your son’s English teacher.”

Mickey’s other eyebrow joins the first as he looks Mr Gallagher over, making sure the guy knows he’s not in any way impressed. Fuck knows Mickey isn’t God’s best creation, but he swears some of the staff at Yevgeny’s school treat him like he’s the fucking Antichrist, sprung from the deepest fires of hell to spoil their crops and corrupt their young.

“Yeah, I know,” he says and forces himself to smirk when Mr Gallagher frowns.

“Wasn’t sure,” he says and shrugs, which for some reason irks Mickey more than any dirty look leveled his way by the hoity-toity theater-lady in charge of Yevgeny’s drama club. “We don’t see you around the school a whole lot, you know?”

Mickey sighs and throws back the rest of his scotch before he waves a hand at Mr Gallagher in a beckoning motion. “Just fucking ask, alright?”

“Ask about what?”

“What do you fucking think, about what?” Mickey complains, rolling his eyes when Mr Gallagher only blinks at him in confusion. “What everybody wants to fucking know. Why I got locked up.”

Mickey’s had a lot of reactions to this revelation since he got out, but this is definitely a new one he can add to his collection.

“Oh,” Mr Gallagher says, and looks significantly less hostile in a quick shift of his stern face. The frown smooths out of his forehead and the disapproving line by his mouth dips with an apologetic turn of his lips.

“Oh?” Mickey repeats, not knowing what else to say.

Mr Gallagher shrugs again, but looks almost sheepish this time. “Didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Mickey asks, holding on to his defensiveness until he knows for sure he’s not gonna have his head chewed off by some sanctimonious bookworm.

“Yevgeny didn’t tell me you’d been locked up,” Mr Gallagher explains, and he sounds nothing like as uncomfortable as people usually do when they find out. “I didn’t know.”

Mickey shakes his head, feeling his annoyed scowl draining away into a look of absolute cluelessness. “Okay?

“Sorry,” Mr Gallagher then says, and Mickey has to take a second to let the whole situation sink in before he can come to terms with this guy _apologizing to him for some reason_.

“For what?” he asks, still holding on to a healthy amount of suspicious hostility.

“I’ve been rude,” Mr Gallagher says and gestures at Mickey with the neck of his beer before he continues. “I assumed.”

“Something worse than a fucking six year sentence?” Mickey sputters, eyes wide when Mr Gallagher fucking smiles at him and then picks at the label of his bottle for a moment in silence.

“I was…seven,” he says, eventually, glancing over at Mickey as if to check that he’s still listening before he goes back to frowning at his bottle. “Yeah, just turned seven, when I first realized my mom cared more about gettin’ high than spending any time with me and my brothers and sisters. Don’t even know my real dad and the one I’ve got…”

He smiles ruefully before he sighs and straightens up a little in his seat, looking over at Mickey again.

“Yevgeny is a great kid,” he says, “and I hated the idea that he’d have to deal with all the shit that comes from having a deadbeat dad.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “But an ex-con is A-OK with you?”

“Yeah,” Mr Gallagher says, raising one shoulder in a lopsided shrug, “sure.”

“Sure?” Mickey parrots, eyebrows doing their best to recede all the way into his hairline.

Mr Gallagher smiles and dips his head, rubbing self-consciously at the back of his neck. Mickey can’t help the casual observation that he’s objectively fucking hot when he’s not busy making an ass out of you and me.

“Look,” he says, and leans just a little bit closer. “Know enough to know that sometimes shitty people get off scot-free, and good people get fucked over by a system set up to work against them. Getting locked up doesn’t make you a bad person.”

He says it like it’s some kind of indisputable fact, as though it’s the easiest thing in the world for him to undo all of his preconceived notions and accept Mickey at face value. No wonder Yevgeny’s been lauding over this guy since he became the kid’s teacher.

“You don’t know,” Mickey insists and swallows, not sure what he will say once Mr Gallagher decides he actually _would_ like to know ‘why’.

“No, guess I don’t,” Mr Gallagher says and nods to himself. “Kinda the point.”

And then he _doesn’t ask_. The silence is stretching long enough for the guy to ask whatever he wants ten times over, and he just sits there and sips his awful fucking beer, like he’s perfectly content knowing Mickey’s been locked away from society for years and not having even the smallest itch to find out _why_.

It drives Mickey up the wall, and he probably doesn’t manage more than a minute of it.

“The fuck are you doing at a bar if you’re not drinking, anyway?” he complains, feeling some of the pressure lifting off his chest when Mr Gallagher huffs out a laugh.

“Well,” he says and twists to look over his shoulder before he turns back to Mickey with an appraisive smirk. “I was making eyes with a real nice piece of ass before you showed up, if you gotta know.”

“Oh,” Mickey says and frowns as he scans the scattered crowd at the bar, looking for someone fitting the vague description.

“Yeah, he left,” Mr Gallagher says and downs the last of his beer in one go, before getting up, “so I’m gonna go home and grade some papers instead.”

“Right,” Mickey huffs and looks back at Mr Gallagher in time to see him lean closer to the bar and catch the bartender’s attention.

“What’s your best scotch?” he asks, and looks up at the top shelves when the bartender hums and points towards one.

“This one’s a really nice Islay,” he says, “Lagavulin, sixteen years old.”

Mr Gallagher nods and holds up a finger, taking out his wallet while the bartender pours him the drink.

“Nice to meet you properly, Mr Milkovich,” he says once he has paid, pushing the rocks glass toward Mickey. ”Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” Mickey manages, giving his suspicious nature one last chance to find any kind of derision or ill-nature in Mr Gallagher’s gesture and coming up with squat. “And it’s Mickey.”

“Mickey,” Mr Gallagher – Ian – smiles, and grabs Mickey’s shoulder in a friendly squeeze as he walks past him. “Have a good one.”

Mickey stares after him until all he can see is the back of his head through the crowd of people, and then it too disappears out the door. It hadn’t really clicked before, but it sure does now. Ian Gallagher was the name of one of the kids living around the corner from him, growing up. Scrappy little red-head, eyes too fucking big for his head.

Mickey still sees them, sometimes. Wide and scared when the rest of the kid tried to act tough, right before they screw closed in pain. Mickey did a lot of fucked up shit as a kid, and this is far from the only thing creeping back to remind him of his past sins when the nights grow long and lonely. But it’s definitely one of the more persistent memories, and he’s never really known why it’s stuck to him so bad.

Maybe because he saw something in Ian he wished he could beat out of himself.

“Unlikely,” he mutters into his glass. He’s not that deep.

The fancy-ass fucking scotch tastes like scotch, but the burn of those pointless extra twelve bucks down the drain is nicely balanced out by the fact that it isn’t _his_ money being wasted on an Old Fashioned glass of proverbial pearls. He resists the urge to toss the whole thing down like he usually would, and settles down to slowly sip it, taking out his phone to type a quick message.

9:21  
You fucking lied about Gallagher doing shit to you that time, didn’t you?

9:22  
_Who? What?_

Mickey is busy typing out a reply when his sister’s image pops up on his screen, the ‘accept call’ button flashing insistently.

 _“The fuck, Mickey?”_ she says when he answers and puts the phone to his ear.

“Ian Gallagher,” Mickey reminds her without preamble, “Firecrotch on South Homan. You said he did shit to you in high school. You lied.”

_“I was like, fourteen!”_

Mickey sighs and closes his eyes, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “Can’t fucking believe you lied about that Mandy, Jesus.”

 _”The fuck do you care?”_ Mandy scoffs, clearly uncomfortable. _“You couldn’t fucking wait to go after him, you hated the Gallaghers.”_

“Ey, I didn’t give shit about no fucking Gallaghers,” Mickey complains, before remembering his point. “He’s Yev’s teacher, douchebag. Kid fucking worships him and now I’m the guy who beat his ass half to death over something he _didn’t fucking do_.”

_“He told you that? And you believe him over me?”_

“Really?” Mickey says, trying his best not to start yelling and get thrown out the bar before he’s finished his stupidly expensive drink. “You’re still gonna lie to me right now?”

_“What happened to familial loyalty?”_

“He’s gay as a fucking maypole, Mandy,” Mickey is practically hissing into his phone, eyebrows flying high when Mandy scoffs again.

_“Doesn’t mean shit, so are you and you did all kinda fucked up shit with chicks back then.”_

“Fucking–,” Mickey starts and bites off the rest of the rant just waiting to bubble up inside him, sighing as he rubs a hand over his eyes. “The look on his fucking face when we got to him, Mands, he was terrified. He didn’t do shit to you, did he?”

_“No.”_

Mickey sighs again and nods, taking a second to let that sink in.

“Whatever,” he mutters, “it’s fine, it’s– whatever.”

 _”Are we good?”_ Mandy asks, and she sounds apprehensive but at least they’re still talking and she isn’t shutting him out at the first sign of conflict. They barely talked at all the first three years after Mickey got locked up, pain and guilt and pent up emotions getting in the way and escalating every little disagreement they had to a point where they couldn’t talk about _anything_ without falling apart at the seams. It didn’t exactly help when Mandy moved out of state, either.

But they’ve been working on it, and they’re almost back to where they were before Mickey’s incarceration. Better, probably, more honest in Mickey’s case, and more in control of both her life and her emotions in Mandy’s case. It’s not always going to be easy but Mickey likes her back in his life, and he wants to keep her there whatever the cost.

“Yeah–, yeah, fuckin’ ‘course,” he says and huffs, shaking his head. “I’m not the one you lied about though. But Gallagher didn’t punch my lights out at first chance, so guess he’s either forgotten or gotten over it by now.”

Mandy laughs, but it sounds more relieved than amused.

 _“So, gay huh?”_ She subtly shifts gear. _”Explains a lot.”_

“Yeah?” Mickey says and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

 _“Shame, too,”_ Mandy hums. _“How’s he looking these days? Tell me he’s hot, come on, break my heart.”_

Mickey drops the phone from his ear and ends the call. He’s glad they’re back in touch and all, but he has his limits.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Music](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=Gxlh9mCRTOKhBrmQSZnMtw) / [Tumblr](http://loftec.tumblr.com) / [And a visual of Nick Cave & Shane MacGowan singing What A Wonderful World](https://youtu.be/OtsXjHk2ZsI)


	9. I fall in love too easily

.

Part Nine

**“I fall in love too easily”**

_Featuring_ Ian Gallagher _as_ Ian  


_Starring_

Phillip Gallagher as Lip  
Carl Gallagher as Carl  
Liam Gallagher as Liam  


_And_

Mickey Milkovich as A Lingering Thought  


~*¨*~

The sun is already low in the sky when Ian follows his brothers through a cut up opening in the chain-link fence, and they leisurely trek through the weeds until they reach the center of the long abandoned construction site.

“Here?” Lip suggests and puts down their makeshift launchpad, kneeling down and resting some of his weight on it as he wiggles it gently until the legs sink down into the soil enough to steady the whole structure.

“You sure about this?” Liam asks, not for the first time, and eyes Carl’s armful of supplies with due suspicion. He’s gently cradling their homemade rocket to his own chest however, and he still sounds just as excited about the whole project as he did when Lip came home and suggested it this morning.

“You’ll DIY a rocket off a fucking YouTube tutorial, no problem,” Lip is grousing amiably as he waves at Carl to hand him one of the screw-lock mortars they’ve spent their Saturday afternoon packing in the backyard, “burning a permanent mark in the living room floor, don’t forget, but you don’t trust me, your own brother and, like–, a certified fucking robotics engineer to build you a simple hobby rocket.”

“While you’re going,” Liam smirks at him, but still hands over the rocket when Lip motions for him to do so, “could you also remind us of why MIT kicked you out again?”

“Same reason Google hired me,” Lip points out, screwing one of the mortars on to the base of the rocket before placing it in the center of the launch pad. “Igniter.”

“Igniter,” Carl repeats, handing over one of the taped up and wired matches Ian still doesn’t quite understand. He just did as he was told, copying Lip’s eager instructions.

“Connect this here,” Lip mutters, taking out the modified Nintendo 64 controller from his pocket and wiring it up to the igniters. “That should do it. Clear area!”

“Clearing area,” Carl says, clearly enjoying his part in the production as he’s marching off to a safe distance with Liam in tow. Ian strolls along with Lip, who is backing away from the rocket and carefully laying down the extended wire running between the pad and his controller.

“This is gonna work, right?” Ian asks in a low voice, watching their two younger brothers set up camp in the newly claimed observation area by dumping the extra mortars on the ground and kicking at the weeds to make space.

“Trust me,” Lip says, “it’ll work.”

Half an hour later, the sky is a turning a pleasant gradient from blue to pink to orange as Ian is watching the clouds sail across it, stretched out amongst the gently swaying weeds. He smiles when Lip swears for the umpteenth time, sitting cross legged on the ground close by and still fiddling with the faulty wires.

Listening to the soothing sound of his older brother’s frustration, and his younger brothers passing the time by throwing rocks at a half-built concrete wall, Ian lets his thoughts wander and inevitably take a turn to a by now familiar route.

“You guys remember the Milkoviches?” he wonders out loud, tucking his hands in behind his head and glancing up at what he can see of Lip’s unruly hair over the weeds.

“Sure,” Lip mutters distractedly, “dated Mandy for a while.”

Ian frowns up at the sky, no recollection of that at all. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Lip says and huffs, “you don’t remember that?”

“Really don’t,” Ian smirks at the clouds, “but there wouldn’t be room for anything else if I tried remembering all the chicks you banged at that time, so–”

“Hey, fuck off,” Lip laughs and throws a pebble at him, hitting Ian smack in the chest. “It was uh–, in the middle of that fucking mess with Karen, you know? Was kind of a dick to her, probably, mostly fucked her to mess with Karen, make her jealous.”

“Jesus,” Ian mumbles, forgetting sometimes how messed up they both had been at the time, Ian with his invariably older and married men, and Lip being so hung up on Karen he set himself up for failure with every single relationship he would have for years to come. “I sure remember Mandy though. Pretty much stayed clear of that whole family after her brothers got to me.”

“Oh yeah,” Lip remembers, not a little gleefully, reaching over to poke Ian in the cheek with the handle of his screwdriver. “Got you good too, didn’t they?”

Ian snorts and ducks away, shuffling to the side until he’s out of Lip’s reach. He absently touches his bottom lip, tracing the barely visible line of the scar running across it and halfway down his chin.

“She was one crazy bitch,” Lip mutters, and Ian thinks he sounds kind of wistful when he says it. “But I’m pretty fucking sure she had good reason to be like that… and I know I wouldn’t have gone to MIT without her on my ass about applying.”

“They still live at the old house,” Carl pitches in, punctuating his sentence by hurling another rock at the wall. “Mickey and his wife and kid.”

Ian twists his head so he can see his rock-slinging brothers, upside-down and far enough away that he thought they couldn’t hear him and Lip talking. “You know about Mickey?”

“Thought he was still in prison,” Lip interjects, before Carl gets the chance to answer, “you know, for killing Terry?”

Staring up at the darkening sky, Ian feels his breath catch in his throat. He knew that the Milkovich patriarch had died at some point, but he’d never been interested in dredging out the details. He isn’t sure he wants to know now either, at least not from anyone other than Mickey himself.

But he also wonders what kind of desperate situation you’d have to be in to kill your own father – even one as objectively terrible as Terry Milkovich – and how painful it must be to live with it after, no matter the circumstance.

“Involuntary manslaughter,” Carl says, calmly correcting Lip’s gossip. “He got out over the summer. Got six, out after four. Good behavior probably.”

“Or overcrowding,” Lip snorts, “sounds more like his speed, right?”

Ian cranes his neck to give him a look, which – to his credit – Lip notices even through the obscuring weeds and awkward angle.

“Hey,” he says, holding up his hands in defense. “He was in my year for a while before he dropped outta high school completely. Good in a fight and sold decent drugs, but he wasn’t ever gonna be anything except Terry’s right hand man… or predecessor, as it turns out.”

Ian frowns, wishing he had any solid evidence to the contrary so he could tell Lip how wrong he is. But starting an argument with Lip armed with nothing except a good feeling and valiant intentions has never gotten him anywhere.

“You know why he killed him?” Lip asks, raising his voice a little to make sure Carl hears him.

“Only know he pleaded guilty to manslaughter,” Carl says and shrugs, throwing a pebble up in the air before catching it and lobbing it at the wall. “But his testimony didn’t exactly paint a very detailed picture. I was doing some work experience for the academy when he got arrested, talked to the officer who got the call. Said they found Terry dead in one of the bedrooms, head bashed in.”

Another rock hits the concrete, chipping off a large chunk of it.

“Mickey had called it in,” he continues, and Ian is amazed at how much he seems to know about it. “Pretty sure Mandy was the only other person there to corroborate his story, saying about as much as he did.”

“You think they lied?” Lip asks, head bent over his work as he listens. “Why would he turn himself in just to lie about it?”

Carl makes a non-committal noise.

“Don’t know. He pleaded guilty and got convicted, so it doesn’t really matter now. Mickey’s old-school South Side though, my money’s on him covering for someone.”

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable with talking about a student’s parent like this, and about Mickey’s personal business in particular, Ian is about to divert the conversation to something else when Lip beats him to it.

“Well,” he says, snapping the batteries back in place. “Whatever happened, think we can all agree he did the world a great service. And uh–, that your oldest, _dearest_ brother is a certified genius.”

“You got it to work?” Liam perks up, dropping the rock he was about to throw before he runs over to Lip.

“Only one way to find out, dude,” Lip says and hands him the controller. “Red button.”

Ian sits up in time to see the mortar spark and the rocket kick off the pad, shooting up into the darkening sky as his brothers erupt in cheers around him.

.


	10. If I should fall from grace with God

.

Part Ten

**“If I should fall from grace with God**  
_**Or** _  
**Scene 11: Two captains, one ship”**

_Featuring_ Yevgeny Milkovich  
_recurrently and in tandem as_  
Yevgeny and Long John Silver  
  


_Starring_

Svetlana Milkovich as The Distant Voice of Mom  
Mickey Milkovich as Dad, Jim, and Captain Flint (the parrot)  
  


_With_

Samantha Haile as _Sam on Messenger_  
  


_And_

Mr Gallagher as A Point of Discussion  
  


~*¨*~

Yevgeny closes the door on what must be the third wave of his parents’ argument du jour. Turning up the volume of his music a couple of levels, he throws himself back down into his chair and stares at the script laid out on his desk.

“And where’s the-,” he mutters the line to himself, frowning when he has to find it on the page to remember. “And where’s the pig sausage as was on this table, pirate. As was on this table.”

He sighs and looks up at the ceiling, the back of his chair creaking.

“Where’s the pig sausage as was on this table, pirate?” he repeats and spreads his arms out in a wide gesture. “Long John Silver, cook.”

A chime from his phone easily pulls his attention away from his lines and he smiles to himself as he reads Sam’s message.

7:46  
_Sucks dude. What’s it about this time?_

7:47  
Who knows. I know I said I kinda liked it, but I think I’m over it now.

7:52  
_Makes sense you liked it. Listening to them fight is a fuckton better than having to drive to Joliet once a week just to see your old man for an hour, don’t beat yourself up about it._

7:52  
_Also makes complete fucking sense that it’s getting old too tho._

7:53  
I think at first they argued because they both kinda like to argue, you know? Now it’s just… don’t know, different? Like, they got divorced for a reason.

7:53  
_MANY reasons._

7:54  
Lol yeah

7:55  
Now it’s like they’re back together again, playing house.

7:56  
Guess I kinda liked that at first cuz it was like when I was a kid and I didn’t know better

7:56  
Am I an asshole for missing it?

7:56  
_Yeah you suck_

7:56  
_No_

7:56  
_Course not_

7:59  
I just want them to be happy and there’s this like tiny stupid voice in my head saying that they used to be happy together

8:00  
Course I know it’s not true, now. Guess it really felt true when I was a kid tho… feel so stupid.

8:01  
_You’re not._

8:02  
_You know how many times I’ve wished my mom would come back since she fucked off the last time? This foster situation is fucking golden compared to the shit life I had with her_

8:02  
I remember

8:03  
One time you told me the good days were good, but seemed to me like most days were bad

8:04  
_Oh yeah_

8:05  
_But fuck me I still love my mom, like an idiot, and when I miss her I only remember the good ones._

8:06  
She loved you too.

8:06  
Worst mom ever. But she did.

8:10  
_Whatever._

8:10  
_I’m really getting into this stupid theater shit, dude. This chick is nuts._

8:11  
_I would._

8:12  
WHY WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT

8:13  
_Something so controversial yet so brave?_

8:13  
NO

There’s a knock on his door, and Yevgeny locks his phone and turns down the music a little before swiveling his chair around.

“Come in.”

The door opens and his dad slinks in, looking around the room as he leans back against the door to close it again behind him.

“Okay if I hide out in here for a sec, kid?” he asks with an apologetic grimace, before nodding towards Yevgeny’s bed.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Yevgeny says, wheeling closer to his bed to grab his arms around the pile of clothes covering most of it, bundling them up and tossing them in the general direction of his laundry bag.

“Thanks,” his dad sighs and sits down on the cleared mattress. “Doin’ homework?”

“Just memorizing my lines,” Yevgeny picks up the script just to drop it back down on the desk, frowning at it. “Trying to go off book, but this scene won’t stick.”

“Yeah?” his dad looks cautiously interested, eyebrows raised as he nods at the script. “Anything I can do? Like–”

He waves a hand around, searching for the right words.

“Run lines?” Yevgeny asks, grinning when his dad claps his hands together and points at him. “Really? You wanna run my lines with me?”

“What’s with the look?” his dad huffs, scowling good-naturedly and waving at Yevgeny to hand over the script. “What am I doing?”

“You read all the other lines,” Yevgeny explains, feeling a wide smile spread across his face as he’s watching his dad frown down at the open page. “Scene 11, I think it starts with Jim.”

His dad nods and rests his elbows on his knees, holding the script in a steady grip as he clears his throat and starts reading.

“Cook? Hello?” he says, “Cabin girl here–, shit, hold up, Jim’s a chick?”

Rolling his eyes at his dad’s surprise, Yevgeny nods. “Yeah, in this adaptation.”

“‘Course, sure, okay,” his dad shrugs and thumbs at his nose as he scans the page. “Gonna have to change my whole portrayal though, had all this backstory thought out and shit, but that’s cool.”

“Just read it,” Yevgeny laughs, nudging at his shin with a foot and feeling the last of his sour mood disperse at the sight of his dad’s poorly hidden smirk.

“Cook? Hello?” he starts over, in the exact same deadpan tone of voice as before. “Cabin girl here.”

“That’s also you,” Yevgeny points out when his dad stops reading to look expectantly at him.

“The parrot? Okay,” he says, frowning down at the page. “Squawk. And, yeah, so um– guess this is Jim again. Hello. Who are you? You're the most beautiful bird I've ever seen. Better than Mrs Crossley's hen. Shit, yeah, fuckin’ everybody knows about Mrs Crossley’s hen, what a bird.”

“Less with the running commentary,” Yevgeny complains, but can’t help laughing again when his dad widens his eyes in mock innocence, “and you’re still the parrot.”

“More? Jesus, I’m doing all the work here,” he grumbles, and then continues in a voice practically indistinguishable from Jim’s, or his own; “Pieces of eight, pieces of eight–”

“Once more with feeling!” Yevgeny tries to encourage a little more enthusiasm from the lackluster performance.

“Pieces of eight!” his dad squawks, shaking his head and pressing his lips together over a pleased grin when Yevgeny cheers at his minimal effort. “And then here’s Jim sayin’; oh, you talk. Say something else.”

Yevgeny sits up straighter and lowers his voice into the half-baked sea-faring accent he’s been workshopping for the last couple of weeks, trying to find a good balance between theatrical and downright silly.

“What d’you want him to say, boy?” he recites his line and winces at how it sounds out loud. The accent is definitely still a work in progress.

But his dad smiles at him, and then smacks him on the knee with the script. “Ey, look at that. I’m not the only one who didn’t know about all this gender-swap adaptation bullshit.”

“Yeah, you’re in real good company, dad,” Yevgeny says indulgently, before resuming his line; “What d’you want him to say, boy? Oh, girl! That's unusual, right Captain Flint?”

His dad frowns down at the script, turning a page.

“Flint’s the parrot?” he asks, eyebrows high to accompany the accusation when he looks up at Yevgeny. “All this time you’ve been calling me a parrot?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny admits, and waves his hand at his dad to continue reading, “but more importantly–”

Mickey rolls his eyes but does as he’s asked.

“Squawk, says the bird and then, aha! Listen to this,” he says, and points at the page, “Captain Flint was a _pirate and a scoundrel_ , says Jim.”

Yevgeny nods. “That he was indeed. This parrot's a pirate and scoundrel too.”

Clearing his throat, his dad almost sounds something like a bird as he repeats: “Where's the pieces of eight?”

“And where's the pig sausage as was one this table, pirate?” Yevgeny asks, wagging a finger at his dad before extending a hand in greeting. “Long John Silver, cook.”

“Jim Hawkins, Cabin girl,” his dad says, taking his hand and shaking it while still keeping his eyes glued to the script. “Captain says I have to help you.”

“I'm very particular about my galley, girl,” Yevgeny warns and stabs his fist down on his thigh. “Have a sharp knife and keep it always handy.”

“You've just stabbed your leg,” his dad reads, before frowning and looking up at Yevgeny. “You just stabbed your leg?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny says and repeats the stabbing motion with his hand, “like this.”

“That’s you stabbing yourself in the leg?” his dad asks, raising his eyebrows when Yevgeny nods.

“Yeah?” he says again, not sure why he’s so hung up on it. “The knife is fake.”

“Sure, okay,” his dad huffs and drops the script down on the floor before motioning at Yevgeny to give him his hand. “But you don’t want it lookin’ fake, do you?”

Yevgeny shakes his head and scoots forward on his chair, holding out his right arm so his dad can take it, firmly but gently shaping his hand back into a fist and holding it in a steady grip.

“Keep it loose here, tension here,” he says, guiding Yevgeny through the motion with one hand on his wrist, and the other on his elbow. “Follow through all the way from your shoulders, feel that? That’s how you’re gonna pierce skin, kid. Elbow grease.”

“Cool,” Yevgeny says and tries it again when his dad nods and lets go.

“So, how fake is this fake knife gonna be?” he asks.

“Honestly?” Yevgeny snorts and makes an unhappy face at the thought of the plastic retractable knife Mrs Tonya dug out for him from the school theater props box. “Probably won’t even fool the back row.”

He has barely finished the sentence before his dad is on his feet, hurrying out the door with a mumbled ‘one sec’. He returns a minute later with a sheathed knife, closing the door with a victorious grin.

“Here,” he says and lobs the knife over at Yevgeny in a fit of poor judgement, wincing apologetically when Yevgeny fumbles and barely manages to catch it before it falls to the floor.

He sits back down on the bed and points at the knife as Yevgeny carefully unsheathes it.

“My first blade, one of my uncles gave it to me when I was five,” he explains, like that’s a perfectly normal memory to have. ”That thing’s a fucking heirloom, son. Make sure you take care of it, if you want it.”

Yevgeny looks down at the knife in his hand. It’s not particularly ornate or big, but the wooden handle is smooth and shiny and the blade is clean and polished, while nagged and scratched from years of use. Feeling its unfamiliar weight in the palm of his hand is a stark reminder of how different his father’s childhood was from his own, and how different they are as people. How remarkable it is that his dad never does anything but encourage him to make his own decisions and follow his own dreams when, for all he’s heard, _his_ dad made a point of doing the exact opposite.

Bullying at best and abusive at worst – Yevgeny can only imagine – he has understood that his grandfather wanted to control everything about his kids. Who they were, what they did, who they loved. He sometimes feels awful for thinking it, but he is kind of relieved that his grandfather spent most of his childhood locked away, limiting Yevgeny’s memories of him to the couple of months he stayed at the house before he died four years ago. Sometimes he wants to ask his dad about what happened that night, but mostly he thinks he’s probably better off not knowing.

“I’ve polished it down, here–,” his dad explains, reaching out to carefully drag the pad of his thumb over the knife’s edge, “but it’s still a weapon and you should respect it, alright?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny nods and touches a fingertip to the dull edge, too, just to try it out, “I will.”

“Good,” his dad sits back with a pleased smile, watching as Yevgeny awkwardly tries gripping the knife in a convincing way. “Now, that fuckin’ said, the point’s likely sharp enough to stick in a peg leg if you wanna try and convince that health and safety hysterical school of yours to use it as a prop.”

Yevgeny straightens up with a wide grin and looks at his dad.

“You think they’d let me?” he asks, giving it some thought when his dad shrugs. “Bet Mr Gallagher would, if I asked him. I bet he’d even show me how to use it.”

“What the fuck?” his dad huffs indignantly, scowling playfully as he jabs Yevgeny in the knee to underline his point. “Listen, ain’t fucking nothing _Mr Gallagher_ can teach you about knives that your old man can’t do with both eyes closed. Not a lot of shit you’re likely lookin’ to learn from me, kid, but at least I got this.”

Opting to ignore his dad’s stubborn – and entirely erroneous – insistence that he’s got nothing to offer as a parent, Yevgeny immediately jumps on the probably accidental offer, gleaming like a shiny lure through the general bitching and complaining.

“Can you teach me some cool tricks?” he asks. His dad raises an eyebrow at him and Yevgeny grins, and almost drops the knife on their feet when he tries to twirl it over his finger.

“Jesus, alright,” his dad grumps, rubbing the palms of his hands on his jeans before motioning at Yevgeny to hand the knife over again. “Ain’t exactly a switchblade, is it? But I think I still got a few moves to get you goin’.”

Yevgeny watches intently as his dad weighs the knife in his hand before giving it a couple of quick turns; changing his grip on the handle so the blade cuts through the air.

“Just a basic shift, like this,” he says, and does it again much slower while talking Yevgeny through it. “Wrap your index finger over to the side of your thumb, scissor the handle between your index and middle finger, here. Then dip your thumb under the handle and lift up, wrapping the rest of your hand around it.”

It looks really simple when he explains it, but Yevgeny can barely follow the movements of his fingers as he shows it a couple more times at full speed, before gipping the knife by the blade and handing it back to its new owner.

“Spin it on an x-axis,” he says, and guides Yevgeny’s hand into the right position when he most likely sees the lost look in his eyes. “As opposed to the y-axis, like this. Yeah, that’s good.”

Yevgeny fumbles with the knife in focused silence for a minute, until his fingers stop feeling like they’re constantly in the way and he’s almost got the knife shifting through his grip in a smooth movement.

“So,” his dad starts after a while, “your little private sessions with Mr Gallagher.”

Yevgeny doesn’t look up from his hand, slowly moving the knife around. His dad has never said anything against Mr Gallagher before, but Yevgeny would have to be blind not to notice that there’s a certain amount of bruised pride, or jealousy, or _something_ there. So he waits for his dad to actually ask a question, if he has one, before he answers.

“He’s not being, like–,” his dad hesitates, scratching at his cheek before waving his hand indeterminately through the air. “Don’t know… weird with you, or anything?”

Frowning, Yevgeny keeps turning the knife. He isn’t exactly sure what he’s being asked, but he has learnt from experience that a firm ‘no’ works best when his dad has got that uncomfortable, worried tone of voice. Asking ‘weird how?’ would probably only push him into a complete tailspin of parental concern.

Sometimes Yevgeny wonders if these rare but intense moments of protectiveness come from his dad thinking he has to compensate for something, that he has to prove himself somehow. He wishes he knew how to tell him it’s alright.

“No,” Yevgeny says and then, just to be safe, decides to reinforce it with a; “not at all.”

“Okay,” his dad lets out a quick exhale, “just checking.”

“Yeah, well–, look!” Yevgeny starts, interrupting himself by managing an almost clean turn. Grinning, he looks up in time to see his dad smiling encouragingly at him.

He tries the turn again, but the knife tilts to the left and almost slips out of his grip.

“He’s fine, dad,” Yevgeny continues telling him about Mr Gallagher as he goes on practicing. “Still barely says a word about anything that isn’t in the curriculum, even when I ask. But he’s cool. Almost everybody loves English now ‘cause of him, even Peter and Nick, though they probably wouldn’t admit it.”

“Nick,” his dad says, picking up on the familiar name. “That’s that guy, right? He still bein’ an ass?”

“The worst,” Yevgeny confirms and yelps when he loses his grip on the knife and it tumbles to the floor between their feet. His dad picks it back up and hands it over without a word. “He’s just being weird now, and Mr Gallagher says I should talk to him about it but I don’t really want to.”

“You’re being fucking harassed by another student,” his dad sums it up, overstating the situation by about a mile in a fit of protective incredulity, “and Mr Teacher of the Year’s advice is to ‘talk to him’?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny shrugs, “I didn’t really understand what he was getting at though, said Nick was trying to get my attention for some reason? ‘Like a peacock’, whatever that means.”

He stills the knife when his dad coughs, and he’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat when Yevgeny looks up.

“I’m hittin’ the damn jackpot tonight,” he says, rubbing his palms together and raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Gonna be useless as fuck when you start worrying about chicks – you’ll have better luck going to your mom about that shit – but this, _this_ I can do.”

Yevgeny frowns, trying his hardest not to pout like a child. “I don’t get it.”

“This is how it is, son,” his dad sighs, clearly pleased with the whole situation. “Boys are dumb as shit, and even though it’s literally never worked out well for them even once in all of human history, boys will still pull your fucking proverbial pigtails, or whatever, tryna get your attention.”

Yevgeny’s eyes widen as he slowly catches up to the gist of what his dad’s saying.

“Oh, yeah,” he confirms, nodding wisely, “welcome to your teenage years, man, hope you enjoyed your stay in childish innocence, shit’s about to get complicated.”

“You’re saying Nick _likes me?_ ” Yevgeny splutters, stilling the knife and staring accusingly at his dad.

“Hey, don’t look at me,” he says and holds up his hands in defense, “but sure fucking seems like it.”

“That’s–,” Yevgeny starts and stops, searching for a word that could possibly summarize what the hell is going on, or how inconceivable it sounds.

“Yeah,” his dad agrees empathically.

“Stupid,” Yevgeny finally decides, a little lamely, and sags back in his chair.

“Not really,” his dad disagrees, patting him lightly on the knee. “But yeah.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Yevgeny complains, and his dad leans back and out of his immediate reach when he throws his hands up in distress, still holding the knife. “Are you sure?”

His dad huffs and gingerly pries the sharp-ish object out of his hand to put it aside on the desk before answering.

“‘Course not,” he says, shaking his head, “he could just be an ass and anyway, even if he _does_ like you, it doesn’t fucking justify bugging you like he’s been doin’ for this long, but–”

Yevgeny narrows his eyes suspiciously when his dad hesitates with an uncomfortable wince. “But what?”

“I don’t know,” his dad sighs and rubs at his cheek before waving a hand through the air. “Speaking with some experience of these things, here... it’s really fucking confusing when you’re like, a young gay kid trying to figure out all the shit going on inside you, right? And at the same time also tryna figure out who’s gonna be, like–”

He clears his throat self-consciously and seems to look to the ceiling for a way to finish his point, eyes not quite back on Yevgeny when he does.

“Down for it, or whatever,” he says and grins when Yevgeny makes a displeased noise.

“Dad,” Yevgeny complains. He was hoping he’d never have to have this conversation with his parents, ever.

“That, or, you know,” his dad soldiers on, “finding out they wanna kill you for tryin’.”

Frowning, Yevgeny looks down at his empty hands, thinking of a life where that kind of thing is a reality. He’s known about his dad for as long as he can remember, and his mom since after the divorce at least, and anyway he can’t imagine how small and scared a person would have to be, to be so scared of another person’s sexuality.

“Yeah but,” he says and meets his dad’s searching eyes. “I wouldn’t be like that if he actually told me.”

“I know,” his dad says and nods, giving him a small, proud smile. “Still fuckin’ scary, though.”

It makes Yevgeny feel guilty in an odd sort of way, for not knowing about all the unfair things his dad has lived through, for the world being the way it is, still.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, kid,” his dad huffs, a wide smile pulling at his lips before his face shifts into a more serious scowl. “Not your fault. And I’m not sayin’ anything he’s doing is okay.”

“I just figured he liked being annoying,” Yevgeny sighs and sits back in his chair. “Should I talk to him?”

“If you want, man, you don’t gotta,” his dad says with a shrug, “but telling him you’re not interested might be a good way to get him to stop, you know?”

Nodding slowly, Yevgeny stares at his hands and tries to imagine how that conversation would go. He can’t remember the last time he approached Nick about anything, by his own volition, and it’s really hard to picture it going very well at all.

“Unless,” his dad carefully interrupts the scenario running through his head, where he ends up with his head in the trash. “Unless you’re interested?”

“No!” Yevgeny yelps, reeling it back in when he sees his dad flinch at the strong reaction. “I mean, I don’t know.”

“Hey, that’s okay,” his dad starts to reassure him, holding up his hands. It’s sweet, but it’s not really something Yevgeny needs him to say. He’s never really thought of it before, but it’s suddenly very clear that he already knew it’s okay.

“I know,” he says with a frown, trying to figure out what it is he really wants to say. “Guess I’ve kinda never thought about it and I don’t know but… it wouldn’t be _Nick_ though.”

He shudders at the thought, but feels a little better about the whole thing when his dad laughs – a quick, brilliant sound.

“You can tell me anything, hope you know that,” he says, reaching out to ruffle a hand through Yevgeny’s hair, scoffing affectionately when he’s batted away.

“I know.”

His dad nods. “And if you wanna talk about this shit one day, you don’t gotta worry about me.”

“Please,” Yevgeny snorts and grins when his dad’s eyebrows fly up in mock offend, “between you and mom I’d be more worried about telling you I’m straight.”

Rolling his eyes, his dad flicks him playfully on the knee. “Don’t gotta worry about that either, alright?“

“Alright.”

“You just be you and–,” his dad starts, making an uncertain gesture with his hand before continuing, “I don’t know, guess we’ll figure shit out if it needs figuring out. Together, if that’s what you want.”

Grinning, Yevgeny nods. “Deal.”

“So, you’re real picky about your galley, are you?” his dad says with a raised eyebrow as he bends down to pick the script back up from the floor. “You’ve just stabbed your leg!”

Yevgeny laughs at his dad’s poor, but significantly more enthusiastic attempt at sounding like a girl.

“My spanking new one as I've just paid big doubloons for in Bristol,” he says, pushing all other thought aside as he lets Long John Silver take over.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy December 10th! ♥


	11. Prisoners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warning for:  
> \- vague description of panic attacks  
> \- reference to past violence and abuse

.

Part Eleven

**“Prisoners”**

_Featuring_ Mickey Milkovich _as_ Mickey  
  


_Starring_

Kevin Ball as Kev  
  


_With_

Ian Gallagher as Ian  
  


_And_

Svetlana Milkovich as An Unfortunately Timed Phone Call  
  


~*¨*~

Mickey makes sure he looks more confident than he feels as he’s pushing his way through the doors to The Alibi. The bar appears pretty much exactly how he remembers it from his last visit, over four years ago now, from the age-worn pool table to the drunks hunched over the bar, and the tall guy casually wiping a beer glass behind it.

“Mickey Milkovich!” he exclaims when he notices Mickey coming in, waving him over to the bar. “It sure wasn’t yesterday we last saw you patronizing our humble establishment, sit down!”

Glancing around the room and letting his shoulders drop when no one seems to pay him any mind, even with the unwelcome introduction, he walks over to the bar and nods at Kev.

“Picked up some new vocab while I was away, I hear,” he notes dryly, eying the shelves behind Kev’s massive frame. “Real classy.”

Completely missing the sarcasm, Kev gives him a wide smile for the assumed compliment.

“Vee’s got me reading with the girls,” he says, chest puffing out with pride, “wonderful things, books.”

“Yeah, if you say so,” Mickey agrees half-heartedly, fighting against the urge to find the man endearing.

Mickey had been a fairly regular fixture at The Alibi before he went away, but he’d never had much of a relationship with the people owning it. He knew about their twin daughters, though, they’d been born around the same time as Yevgeny was and, at the time, Kev had seemed like the very antithesis of himself as a father.

Kind, loving, patient. Willing.

He would try to show Mickey baby pictures with his shots, or talk bedtime techniques with his beers, and Mickey would ignore him or glare at him until he stopped and went away. The big, kind-hearted man no longer fills Mickey with the same sick, gut-wrenching feeling, but he’s still not overly keen on doing the whole small-talk thing with him. Especially not since he’s pretty sure there’s a ‘so, what have you been up to?’ coming next, even though he could bet there’s not a single person in this particular bar who _doesn’t_ know where Mickey’s been for the last four years, and why.

“Can I get a beer?” he mutters, looking away when Kev smiles kindly at him.

“You got it,” he says and fucking winks as he moves over to indicate a section of the shelf behind him. “We’ve got a local Imperial IPA, or more of a Pale Ale, that’s Daisy Cutter, or how about a Belgian Strong Ale from San Diego?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows when Kev looks back at him expectantly, probably ready to try and sell him the rest of the hipster-looking craft beers on the shelf if none of the ones already mentioned turn out to his liking.

“Beer,” Mickey repeats, refusing to elaborate on his order when Kev looks slightly crestfallen.

“On tap we’ve got–,” he starts

“Just, beer,” Mickey interrupts him, “Jesus, fuck, just–, _any_ beer, please, thank you.”

Kev looks lost for a second, but then he smiles and points at Mickey.

“I’ll get you my favorite,” he says, grabbing a bottle from the fridge and uncapping it as he hands it over, “on the house.”

Mickey takes the offered bottle with a suspicious frown, waiting for a caveat or at least an explanation. But all he gets is another wink, and it’s enough for Mickey to abandon the bar to take his beer and his business to anywhere but there.

He’s been standing awkwardly by the pool table for a minute, beer cool in his hand, when he spots him. Sitting in one of the more secluded booths with a mess of papers spread out in front of him, is Ian Gallagher. Hunched over his work with a pen in one hand and a neglected half-empty beer in the other, he seems completely oblivious to the world around him.

Mickey kinda wants to go over there and rattle him out of his bubble, see if he always is as unflappably upright as he’d made ut to be last time they met.

The decent thing would probably to to ignore him, and let the guy continue his work in peace, but Mickey has never pretended to put much stock in decency. Looking around the room for a better option (of which there are probably plenty, but who cares), he pastes on a lazy smirk and strides over to Gallagher’s booth.

“Yo,” he says and sets his beer down on the table, and he might as well have slammed it down going by Gallagher’s startled reaction. “Mind if I sit down?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, grunting appreciatively as he squeezes himself into the empty seat opposite the still reeling English teacher.

“So,” he says, making sure to interrupt him the moment Gallagher’s mouth falls open to say something, “hear you’ve been real chatty with my kid lately.”

Gallagher frowns, jaw snapping shut for a second before he says; “What?”

“About this and that,” Mickey suggests, showing off one of his more discerningly unpleasant smiles as confusion and panic dawn in Gallagher’s widened eyes, “about birds and bees, and _boys_.”

“Jesus,” Gallagher sighs, wiping a hand over his eyes before giving Mickey a pleading look. “Listen, Mr Milkovich, it’s not–”

Mickey drops the ruse, letting his smile turn from menacing to genuine as he holds up his hand to stop Gallagher’s explanation.

“Relax, I’m just messing with you,” he says, enjoying the look of relief passing across Gallagher’s face even more than he had the fear and panic. “You’re fine. And I told you, it’s Mickey.”

“Well, _Mickey_ ,” Ian huffs and leans back in his seat, his work momentarily forgotten. “You scared the shit out of me. Congrats.”

“Thanks,” Mickey decides to ignore the sarcasm, holding his beer up with a muttered ‘cheers’ before taking a swig.

“Yevgeny told you about our conversation, huh?” Ian asks, looking like he’s finally composed himself again.

“Yeah, but don’t worry,” Mickey says and rests his elbows on the table as he leans a little closer, “you were totally discreet, so fucking discreet in fact that your pretty damned astute advice went right over the poor kid’s head.”

Wincing, Ian nods. “Kinda figured.”

“I spelled it out to him once I put together what you’d been insinuating,” Mickey says, raising a curious eyebrow. “You really think this Nick kid’s got a thing for Yev?”

“I’m really not comfortable discussing my students’ private business with… anyone, actually,” Ian seems to decide as he speaks. “But–”

He holds up his hands and shrugs, looking like he has to dig real deep to get himself to continue.

“Felt like I had to at least suggest the possibility to your son ‘cause–, you know,” he says and hesitates, shaking his head. “If I’m right about Nick… I’ve been there, it sucks, having those kinda feelings and not knowing how to express them or what’s gonna happen if you do.”

“Told him to do what you said,” Mickey decides to give him that much, pointing at Ian with the neck of his beer. “Talking to Nick seems like the best way forward, whatever the fuck’s goin’ on with him.”

Ian nods, his lips quirking up in a pleased smile.

“Yevgeny is a great kid,” he says, like Mickey needs to be told. “Lucky too, having a father he can talk to about that stuff.”

The words burn, partly as the compliment he’s sure Ian meant them to be, but partly because he still isn’t sure he deserves hearing it. Mickey ducks his head and scowls at the damp label on his beer, frayed at the edges where he’s been picking at it.

“I’ve got a lot of respect for your wife,” Ian continues. “She’s very… formidable. But maybe not the easiest to talk to when it comes to these things?”

Uncomfortable and not looking to encourage Ian to say more on the subject, Mickey decides to divert the conversation with the first thing that comes to mind.

“Ex-wife,” he corrects and sits back. “Divorced me when I was locked up, couple of years back.”

“Sorry,” Ian says, a slightly concerned frown furrowing his brow, “that sucks.”

The sympathy is sweet, but completely unnecessary. Mickey only married Svetlana because he’d knocked her up, and he’d only knocked her up because Terry had paid up front and expected his son to get his money’s worth. Getting a divorce was pretty much the first thing him and Svetlana had ever seen eye to eye on, and pretty much the only thing they’ve agreed on since.

It’s not really anything he’s looking to discuss with anyone, though, least of all his son’s English teacher.

“Nah, long time comin’,” he says and leaves it at that for Ian to do with what he will, taking another swig of his beer to mark a definite end to that conversation.

Ian stares at him in silence for a moment, until his contemplative frown turns into a quick grin.

“So,” he says, clearly picking up on Mickey’s reticence and graciously introducing a new topic, “your son came to school with a knife the other day, care to comment on that at all, or?”

Mickey groans and wipes his hand over his face, mostly to hide the involuntary smile pulling at his lips. He’s not been contacted by the principal since he gave Yevgeny that knife, so he figured the kid had been unusually smooth about the whole thing and kept mum about it, but apparently not.

At least Ian seems to remember his roots enough not to make a fuss over one little Bowie knife on school grounds.

“Told him to keep clear of the cameras,” Mickey complains, snorting when Ian throws his hands up in commiseration.

“Kids these days, huh?” he says, tilting his head to the side. “But to be fair, he wasn’t actually caught with it on camera.”

“See, I taught him well.”

“Yeah,” Ian says and grins, “no, he only really started waving it around once he got to my office.”

Wincing, Mickey looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head. “Maybe not so well.”

“Mrs Tonya probably would’ve dragged him to the principal’s office right then and there,” Ian says, reaching out to grab his beer with a shrug. “But luckily he decided to run this latest artistic vision by me, first.”

”You guys sure getting real worked up over a dud knife,” Mickey tries to defend himself, fighting off the doubt threatening to turn the nice moment he had with his son into another monumental fuckup on his part.

What kind of parent teaches his kid to handle a knife? He’d seen an opportunity to enpart some of his limited skills to his son and he’d jumped at it, not considering what anyone else would think when Yevgeny went to school the next day carrying an assault weapon.

“I doubt Mrs Tonya’s ever gonna let Yevgeny do his scenes with a real knife, dud or not,” Ian continues, completely unaware of Mickey’s building internal crisis. “But seems to me like he’s already got the basics down on how to handle it properly… I think some more lessons with you and he’ll have a real cool party trick up his sleeve for college, if nothing else.”

Mickey looks up at Ian, taking a moment to study his carefully inexpressive face. Maybe not so unaware, after all.

Letting out a shaky breath, Mickey blinks over the gentle prickle in the corners of his eyes with a sudden, unyielding urge to let someone know how fucking lost he feels, all the time.

“I’m–,” he starts, pinching at his eyes until they stop stinging and he can look at Ian again without making a fool of himself. “I’m still… adjusting. Shit.”

He feels like an idiot, but Ian doesn’t interrupt him or change his blank expression. It’s like he exudes an air of patience, a strangely inviting and convincing thing, silently convincing Mickey that he’s safe to say whatever he wants. Some kinda fucking pedagogy voodoo, no doubt, lulling his victims into a vulnerable state before going for the kill.

That, or he’s actually willing to listen to Mickey bitch about his life for a minute, and maybe Mickey should just run with it.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, and empties his beer for some liquid courage, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he speaks. “In there, all I ever fuckin’ thought about was how different everything was gonna be once I got out, you know?”

Ian doesn’t say anything, hardly moving a muscle as he clearly waits for Mickey to go on.

“Guess not,” Mickey sighs. He supposes a middle school English teacher wouldn’t have too much experience with long term incarceration, even one born and raised in South Side Chicago. But then Ian ducks his head, and Mickey could swear he can see an almost pained look on his face before it dips out of sight.

It’s gone once Ian looks up again.

“Everything sure as shit is different,” Mickey continues, scratching at the back of his head before gesturing toward the bar in general, indicating the whole fucking world that kept on spinning while he was held in one place. “Me and Svet, we were never supposed to get hitched and splitting up should’ve by all rights been the best thing we’ve ever done, but here we fucking are.”

He sits back, equal parts uncomfortable and relieved to finally talk about this out loud. It feels like everything is coming out in a jumble, he’s got years of pent up bullshit and no idea how to talk about any of it.

“I’m looking for a place, but–,” he says and shrugs, figuring that he doesn’t have to explain the added impossibility of being an ex-con when looking to rent. “Staying with Svet and Yev right now and I think we’re well on our way to traumatizing the kid, just tryna live in the same space again when we’re supposed to be done with all that shit.”

He never expected it would be easy, getting out and returning to society after four years. But maybe he had dreamed, and hoped, that he’d manage everything in strides, that he wouldn’t let himself be affected by prison at all. That he would still be able to pretend that he knew what he was doing, like he had when he was growing up.

“Who would’ve thought,” he huffs, but it doesn’t sound funny even to his own ears. “After all this. It’s the yelling and the every- _fucking_ -day thing and my kid’s face all disappointed that’s makin’ me–”

Pressing his lips together to shut himself up, he wipes at his nose with the back of his hand and refuses to give in to the hopeless feeling building inside him. It’s the same kind of feeling that would flood over him sometimes when he was growing up – with every dawning realization that he’d never get to live the kind of life he wanted, with the kind of person he wanted, not as long as his old man was around and had his number. It would drown him and steal his breath away as his vision blurred and faded.

He hasn’t had a panic attack in years, not since his first year in pen when the medic on staff told him that was what it was. He’s sure as shit not gonna have one now, not here, not like this.

“Hey,” Ian’s voice breaks through his thoughts, and the light touch of cold fingertips to his wrist somehow manages to focus his thoughts to that one point of contact. He looks down at Ian’s fingers resting loosely over his pulse, thumb stroking slowly up the back of his hand still holding on to his empty beer.

And he must look like he doesn’t like it, because Ian suddenly lets go and sits back, hiding his hands under the table.

“Sorry,” he says, only making Mickey scowl at him for thinking that he needs to apologize. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Yevgeny is disappointed in you. I think you’re trying, and that’s good enough, Mickey. You’re doing good.”

Mickey tries taking another breath, closing his eyes.

The ebbing hopelessness leaves only embarrassment behind, another one of Mickey’s least favorite emotions, and a faint jolt of pleasure at Ian’s kind appraisal. He shivers and decides to deal with the whole debacle the only way he knows how. Head first.

Ian is wearing the same calm, patient expression when Mickey opens his eyes, but then he raises a questioning eyebrow and it’s not patronizing or pitying. It’s playfully mocking, and the dry humor of it makes Mickey feel a hell of a lot better than any kind word or gentle gesture ever could.

“Fuck off,” he huffs and shakes his head, not bothering to suppress the pleased smirk pulling at his lips.

Ian grins, and the directed light over their table falls on his chin in a way it hadn’t before, highlighting the thin line of an old scar running down it.

“Ey, while we’re here,” Mickey decides, not seeing any reason to go on not mentioning the big fat elephant in the room. “Talking about my personal shortcomings and all… wanna tell you I’m sorry for what I did to you that time.”

Ian looks confused at first, his gaze dipping when Mickey touches the pad of his thumb to his own bottom lip, tracing it down his chin to mimic the mark of Ian’s scar. Ian seems distracted for a second, but then he smiles and meets Mickey’s eyes again, quirking that same curious, amused eyebrow as before.

Mickey kinda likes it. Way too much for it to really be okay.

“This part of your rehabilitation?” Ian asks. “You gotta look up all the people you’ve ever beaten up and apologize to them personally?”

“Nah, special service,” Mickey says with a snort, before wincing apologetically. “You’re probably one of the very few who didn’t deserve it in some way.”

“Ah,” Ian says, looking down at his hands, still hidden by the table. “Mandy told you.”

Mickey scoffs. “‘Told me’ is a bit of a fucking stretch, but yeah.”

“It’s okay. It’s passed.” Ian looks up at him again with a one-shouldered shrug. “Probably would’ve done the same if Debs had come home tellin’ me whatever Mandy told you.”

“Still,” Mickey says, not ready to let the whole thing to rest just yet. “Bitch lied about it and that ain’t right.”

Seemingly taking a second to think that over, Ian leans back in his seat before meeting Mickey’s eyes again.

“Could’ve squared up and told Mandy why I didn’t want to get with her, but I didn’t, so,” he says. “Guess I didn’t imagine it would help my case much to plead the gay card, at the time.”

“Probably not,” Mickey admits.

“Whatever,” Ian says, pressing his lips together in a wry smile as he shakes his head. “Not the first time I got knocked down for being stupid, or gay. Far from the last.”

Mickey nods and lets the silence speak for him, taking a second to revel in the moment of understanding hanging between them.

He can’t help it, he feels fucking _elated_. He’d figured that this conversation would be awful, but Ian talks about the whole thing like it’s nothing worse than anything else, it just _is_. Growing up, being gay was all wrapped up in violence and shame for Mickey, and he could probably count the number of open and carefree conversations he’s had about this stuff on one hand. Looking over at Ian and seeing this clear and mutual recognition fills him with a kind of calm he doesn’t often get to feel.

He has people in his life now who know about him, and have learned to understand him. But he figures it’s a rare gift to meet someone who seems to understand without having to be told. The thought sends a shiver of anticipation through him, the vast future potential embodied by Ian Gallagher suddenly looking both exciting and overwhelming.

And on the whole a really bad idea.

Ian looks away first, picking up one of the papers strewn out on the table, waving it in the air between them.

“Your son wrote an essay about Anne Bonny for an assignment last week,” he says, putting it back down on the table and gathering the papers under it into a slightly neater pile. “It’s very good, you should ask to read it once he gets it back.”

“Who’s Anne Bonny?” Mickey asks, wishing that he didn’t care if not knowing that makes him look stupid to Ian.

But Ian doesn’t in any way express it, if that’s what he’s thinking.

“18th century pirate,” he says. “Sailed with Calico Jack Rackham and while he got himself hanged in 1720, Anne Bonny is supposed to have lived well into her eighties, your son says. He also blames Wikipedia if that turns out to be wrong, so he’s kinda showing his cards there.”

“At least he’s honest, you gotta give him that,” Mickey says, not without a certain amount of pride. _Not yet a pirate, or a scoundrel,_ he thinks, smiling to himself as he remembers his son’s gleeful rendition of Long John Silver’s lines – gesturing wildly as he told Mickey’s Jim about his old captain’s wicked ways.

Ian opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it was is interrupted by an insistent buzzing in Mickey’s pocket. He pulls out his phone and rolls his eyes when he sees Svetlana’s name flash on the screen.

“Gotta take this,” he mutters as he swipes the ‘accept call’ button and puts the phone to his ear. “What?”

_“I have been messaging you for twenty minutes.”_

Mickey scowls and looks away from Ian’s curious face. “Wasn’t checking my phone, relax.”

Probably not the right thing to say, judging by the string of angry Russian following. _“Nika called, you need to come home so I can leave.”_

“Christ, just leave,” Mickey complains. “Kid’s fucking thirteen, Svet, you can leave him alone for an hour. The fuck did you do while I was locked up, took him with you everywhere?”

_“I had babysitter,”_ she says, and Mickey can’t tell if she’s being serious, stressed, or just pissed off, or all of the above. _“I don’t need babysitter now. You come home, then I leave._

Leaving Svetlana hanging, he drops the phone from his ear as he tips his beer back one last time, remembering too late that he finished it at least ten minutes ago.

“Gotta go,” he announces, and pretends he can’t feel Ian watching him as he gets out of the booth.

“Nice talking to you,” Ian says and smiles when Mickey glares at him, lingering by the table for a second to check his pockets and make sure he’s got everything.

“Yeah?” Mickey huffs. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Ian locks his lips and throws away the key, and Mickey can’t help smiling as he takes his empty beer with him and leaves.

“Thanks,” he tells Kev, placing the bottle on the bar when he walks by it.

“You’re very welcome,” Kev says, raising his voice as Mickey heads for the door, “and many happy returns!”

Ignoring the urge to let the guy know that’s not how you use that phrase, Mickey gives him a wave over his shoulder and walks out on the street.

It has started raining since he got there, a fairly gentle but persistent smattering of drops hitting him in the face as he leaves the building. He pulls his jacket closer around himself and puts the phone back to his ear.

_“–you leaving?”_ he catches Svetlana mid-question.

“Yeah, Jesus,” he mutters, “I’m on my way now.”

Squeezing the phone to his ear with his shoulder, he manages to get out his battered pack of cigarettes and light one up as he walks.

“She in trouble?” he asks, now that he’s away from prying ears. Svetlana and Nika have been on and off for years – Svetlana only letting her stick around when she tries to stay clean, which is usually well-intended and short lived – and Mickey isn’t entirely sure he gets why she puts up with it. Between the addiction and the territorial pimps, the lady seems more trouble than she’s worth most of the time. But then again, he’s not the one in love with her, so maybe he doesn’t have to get it.

And getting it or not, he knows he will help her if Svetlana asks him to.

_“No,”_ Svetlana says, but he can hear now that she’s exhausted.

“Alright,” Mickey sighs and picks up the pace. “I’m home in ten.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are fantastic, thanks for reading!
> 
> [Music](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=tuLpTtswT4y2pQ_7_uJ2eA) / [Tumblr](http://loftec.tumblr.com)


	12. Oh Treasure Island

.

Part Twelve

**“Oh Treasure Island”**

_Featuring_ Ian Gallagher _as_ Ian  
  


_Starring_

Nicholas Szymanski as Nick  
Samantha Haile as Sam  
Livia Amorim as Livia  
Christina Coleman as Tina  
A handful of adults as Unhelpful Parents  
  


_With_

Yevgeny Milkovich as Yevgeny  
  


_And_

Mickey Milkovich as A Sight for Sore Eyes  
  


~*¨*~

_A –_

_Well presented and argued, Yevgeny. You have an impressive way with words and you have picked a fascinating subject. Being critical of sources is a very important skill to have and I want to commend you for discussing it so transparently in this essay. That said, I would be remiss not to advise you to maybe stay away from Wikipedia all together next time since you know it is not entirely reliable as a source, or generally accepted as one within academia._

_A recommendation for later in life (TV-MA, parental guidance very much advised):_  
_See “Black Sails” for swashbuckling alternative re Anne Bonny’s life, and “Treasure Island” food for thought._

_IG_

***

Suppressing another sigh, Ian squares his shoulders and lets himself lean into the old habit of military attention. It helps with the overwhelming urge roll his eyes, raise his voice, or punch a guy in the face, while also taking some pressure off the dull ache slowly making its way up his left side.

“Wednesdays are generally not good for me,” Tessa Evans’ dad says, for the fourth time in as many minutes, “and if I have to organize the pyrotechnics _and_ choreograph the lights, I think it’s only fair if we could move these meetings to Mondays.”

Pressing his lips together, Ian refrains from reminding the insufferable man that he was very quick to volunteer for both those things and that he strictly speaking doesn’t _have_ to do anything except place a small donation and maybe show up for a couple of meetings with the already very capable team of students working with lights and special effects. Not to mention that he volunteered to these things _knowing_ it meant showing up for rehearsal once or twice throughout the semester.

“That could be difficult, Mr Evans,” he says instead, but his attempt at a diplomatically phrased shutdown is cut short by Tina Coleman’s mother, sitting a few rows behind Mr Evans.

“I’m concerned about this choice of material,” she says, brandishing a copy of the script. “Pirates? Ghouls and singing ghosts? And all that _rum_? Is this really appropriate for these young, impressionable, _Christian_ children?”

Holding up a hand, Ian tries to protest. “St Mary is a religiously independent school, Mrs Coleman, and has been for–”

“Do you want us to _think of the children_ , Helen?” Mrs Szymanski interrupts him to tease Mrs Coleman, leaning forward in her seat so she can look at the other woman sitting further down the same row. “Treasure Island is a classic, don’t be ridiculous.”

Mrs Coleman huffs and Ian thinks he probably should interject with some more of his feeble diplomacy, but Mrs Szymanski is talking sense right now and he’s loath to cut her short as he suspects that it won’t last for very long.

“But while we’re discussing the material,” she continues, right on cue. “What on earth is with this adaptation? My son was a shoe-in for Jim before that liberal mad-woman decided to use our children to push her _feminist_ agenda.”

“Mom!”

Ian turns to look up at the stage behind him where the aforementioned children are no longer reading through their lines in hushed voices, scripts lowered as they’re staring right back at them. Nick has stood up in agitation, glaring accusingly at his mother.

Turning back, Ian frowns up at Mrs Szymanski. He can take a lot of bullshit, but slandering his colleges and misrepresenting his students is taking it several steps too far.

“The students chose this play _and_ the adaptation on their own, together,” he says, holding up a hand when she opens her mouth to argue. “Your opinion has been noted, Mrs Szymanski, but all of these concerns should have been brought up a long time ago, if at all. Not in the middle of the semester and not with the production in full swing.”

“Tuesdays,” Mr Evans says, like he hasn’t even noticed that the conversation has moved on. “I can usually do Tuesdays.”

“Or how about you shut the fuck up and show up when Mr Gallagher tells you to show up,” a brysk, no-nonsense voice decides, turning everyone’s attention to try and find the source. Mickey is lounging by the side door, like he’s been there the whole time, raising his eyebrows when all eyes land on him. “Or let someone else buy the fucking fireworks and pretend they know shit about lighting a stage, Jesus fuck, just stop bitching about it.”

Mrs Coleman lets out a shocked gasp at the unfavorable mention of her lord and savior and, without missing a beat, Mickey points at her and says; “That one’s for you, lady. On the house.”

“And who do you think you are?” she demands.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mickey mutters, and even though it’s by far the most fun Ian’s had all afternoon, nay, week, he figures that the affronted tutting from the other parents is _his_ cue to step in and smooth shit out with some more of that diplomacy.

“This is Mickey Milkovich, Yevgeny’s dad,” he says, gesturing at Mickey and trying not to look too pleased about it when Mickey’s scowl smooths out and his shoulders relax out of his defensive stance. Ian gives him a welcoming nod and moves his hand to indicate the theater of seats in front of him, before quickly checking his watch for time. “We’ve only got a couple of minutes left, but sit down?

“Nah,” Mickey says, thumbing at his nose and grinning when he looks away at something behind Ian. “Think I’ll pass.”

Ian twists to look over his shoulder in time to see Yevgeny waving at his dad to join him and his friends on the stage.

“Right,” Ian says, suppressing another sigh as he turns back to the parents, refusing to let himself stare longingly after Mickey as he takes his refreshingly no-nonsense common sense and escapes up stage left. “How’s everyone for Wednesday in two weeks?”

The parents nod, suddenly a lot more subdued than they were a minute ago, and Mr Evans mutters something about rescheduling something, neck bent as he taps away on his phone.

Ian manages to wrap up the meeting nice and quick after that, and finds himself aimlessly climbing the stage as parents and students start milling around, packing up and getting ready to go home. He walks past Yevgeny, Sam, Nick and Livia sitting center stage in intense conversation over a page in the script, ignoring the occasional plead from their parents to call it a night. Knowing what they’re like when they’re in the middle of something, Ian suspects they’re not going anywhere for at least another ten minutes.

Wandering toward the back of the stage, he finds Mickey staring up at the mechanism controlling the scenery.

“Hey,” he says, grinning awkwardly when Mickey only looks at him long enough to raise an eyebrow, before turning back to inspect the ropes and pulleys. “Thanks, for–”

He lets the sentiment drift off with a shrug, suddenly feeling self-conscious for assuming Mickey had said the things he said as a show of support for _him_ , and not just as a general effort to rattle his fellow man.

But then Mickey looks at him again, eyes dipping for a second in quiet appraisal before he smirks and turns to look out over the stage.

“That the kinda leadership skills you got from the army?” he asks, and Ian knows he’s being teased but he still can’t help being strangely flattered by the comment.

His failed stint in the army isn’t general knowledge among the people he’s gotten to know after he started building the life he’s got now. But he told Yevgeny – and he’s still not exactly sure why he did tell him – and Yevgeny must have told his dad. And Mickey retained that information, and now it’s part of how he sees Ian.

It’s the kind of thing he’d normally hate, not being in control of how others see him, but not this time. Fuck knows why, but he feels oddly safe around Mickey.

“Kinda got kicked out of the army,” he says, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he turns to stand next to Mickey, a good couple of feet of space between them.

He knows that saying something like that usually makes people want to know more, and he feels himself relaxing little by little as the seconds pass and Mickey lets the silence linger.

When he eventually does say something, it’s on a completely different subject.

“Guess what show I’ve been watching?” he asks, and it would have been an impossible question if Ian didn’t know exactly what he’s been watching the second he glances sideways and sees his knowing smirk.

Ian should probably feel bad for using Yevgeny’s homework as a way to communicate anything other than constructive feedback, but the opportunity to recommend Black Sails in connection to his essay on Anne Bonny had been too good to pass up. Even though the show in question is way too tough for a thirteen-year-old, and maybe the recommendation never was meant for him in the first place.

“So?” he prompts, grinning when Mickey rolls his eyes. “Come on, it’s a fucking fantastic show.”

“If you say so,” Mickey huffs. “Kinda struggling with it.”

“How many seasons?” Ian asks, shaking his head when Mickey looks slightly overwhelmed at the thought.

“You fucking kidding me?” he balks. “Like two episodes, dude, still debating if I wanna continue.”

“Is it all the politics?” Ian tries to guess. He’d found the first couple of episodes a little confusing when he initially watched it, trying to keep up with all the characters and intrigue of what he’d expected to be some lighthearted hanky-panky and pirating adventure.

But Mickey shakes his head and looks almost uncomfortable when he shrugs, before he says; “It’s a tough watch, man, don’t know what you think I’m into, but…”

Trying to hide his surprise, Ian feels his already growing appreciation for Mickey pretty much double in size from one moment to the next.

“Exactly how I felt when I started watching it,” he admits. “Nearly gave up on it after the business with Max on the beach.”

Mickey looks at him, pretty much confirming Ian’s suspicion that it might have been the gratuitous sexual violence that put him off the show.

“Give it a chance,” he says, trying to sound as authoritative as he can. “One season, I promise it’s worth it. They deal with all that shit and move away from it. Give it a season and you’ll be hooked.”

Mickey looks at him for a second, like he’s trying to figure something out, then he shrugs and turns away again, smiling to himself.

“If you say so.”

“Mr Gallagher?” Sam calls out, and Ian turns his head to find four pairs of eyes looking at him intently.

“Yeah?”

“Can we add another scene?” she asks, holding up the script and pointing at the page she’s got it turned to. “It’s just a small one, we won’t even need a new set.”

“Why not?” he says before his students’ happy grins remind him to be suspicious. “Let’s talk about it on Friday.”

They reluctantly agree and turn back to talk amongst themselves.

“Yev told me you’d been roped in to run this circus,” Mickey says, regaining Ian’s attention. “How’s that working out for you?”

“TBD,” Ian huffs and shakes his head, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Honestly, got no fucking clue what I’m doing.”

“Who does,” Mickey says and rubs at his bottom lip.

“The kids do,” Ian says with a shrug, looking away. “It helps. Mrs Tonya’s on sick leave until the end of the year, so guess I’m seeing this thing through to the end whether I’m good at it or not.”

Mickey looks at him like he wants to make sure Ian knows he isn’t impressed by his self-deprecation.

“You’ll do fine,” he says.

“Maybe,” Ian says and tries not to smile when that reminds him; “you wouldn’t happen to have any transferable skills we can use, do you?”

He categorically surrenders to his smile when Mickey looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“I mean,” he clarifies, “besides knife tricks?”

“Dad’s an artist,” Yevgeny says, zipping up his backpack as he joins them.

“Shut up, what?” Mickey splutters, turning his incredulous glare to his son. “No, I’m fucking not.”

“You draw,” Yevgeny states matter-of-factly, putting on his backpack and looking up at his dad with a stubborn frown. “And you’re gonna be a tattoo artist.”

Mickey looks almost shell-shocked, scowling at his son while he talks and Ian looks to him for confirmation. He doesn’t deny it though, so Ian assumes that there’s some truth to it.

“You could help with the set,” Yevgeny decides, smiling winningly at his dad.

Ian would not have been able to say no.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey asks, eyebrows shooting up as he seems to regain his equilibrium. “That right?”

“Yes?” Yevgeny tries, even though he probably already knows that he isn’t likely to win this one.

“Not gonna happen, Long John,” Mickey says and grins when his son puts on an impressively dramatic pout. “Now, say ‘goodbye, Mr Gallagher’.”

Yevgeny sighs and rolls his eyes, but turns to Ian anyway. “Goodbye, Mr Gallagher.”

“Perfect, what a talent,” Mickey praises him sarcastically, smirking when Yevgeny clearly struggles against a smile. “That’s right. Got all your shit?”

Nodding, Yevgeny lets himself be directed to turn around by Mickey’s twirling finger.

“Good,” Mickey says and drapes an arm over his shoulders to start leading him off the stage, “door.”

“Bye, Yevgeny,” Ian calls out after them. “Au revoir, Monsieur Milkovich.”

Yevgeny tilts his head back with a laugh, and Mickey throws up a middle finger over his shoulder as they disappear out the side door. Ian can’t wipe the pleased grin off his face, until he turns and catches sight of Mrs Coleman’s disapproving glare from across the stage.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Music](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=ftOiVztSQsesRRNYcaH7OQ) / [Tumblr](http://loftec.tumblr.com) / [I've put a lot of bodies in the ground for you, haven't I?](https://youtu.be/XnO7RoezIDM)


	13. The snow is falling

.

Part Thirteen

**“The snow is falling**  
_**or** _  
**Scene 14: An apple barrel”**

_Featuring_ Yevgeny Milkovich  
_in his returning role as_  
Yevgeny  
_and_  
The Dastardly and Dashing Pirate Long John Silver  
  


_Starring_

Ponciano Rosiquez as Chano  
Jessica Norton as Jess, Dick, Badger, Killigrew, Black Dog, and Grey  
  


_With_

Samantha Haile as Sam and Joan the Goat  
  


_And_

Mickey Milkovich as Dad  
  


~*¨*~

“So?” Sam asks, bumping shoulders with Yevgeny as she circumvents a row of newspaper racks lining the sidewalk. “What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything!” Yevgeny laments, throwing up his hands in frustration. “He just stared at me like he _hasn’t_ been harassing me for a year and I just came outta nowhere, talking out of my ass... and then he walked away!”

“Are you sure you wasn’t talking to him in Russian?” Sam says and snorts when Yevgeny shoves at her. “Hey! It _has_ happened.”

“Not in years,” Yevgeny protests, “and never at school, and really it’s only ever happened with you, so–, shut up!”

“Aw,” Sam laughs and wraps her arms around Yevgeny’s shoulders in a big hug, not stopping to do so and forcing an annoyed-looking elderly man walking the other way to move around them. “If only you were better at the insulting banter, Zhenya, I’d call you brother and learn Russian for you in a second.”

“Don’t call me that,” Yevgeny complains at the nickname his mom used for him when he was a kid, cringing and shrugging his shoulders to get Sam to let go. She cackles and hugs her octopus arms tighter around him, almost tipping them both over on the sidewalk. “And don’t–, don’t do any of that.”

“Excuse me?” Sam recoils, clearly pretending to be hurt as she finally lets go and smacks her fist into Yevgeny’s arm. “I’d make a fucking awesome sister, dude, you should be so fucking lucky.”

“Already lucky enough to call you best friend,” Yevgeny says honestly, grinning when Sam rolls her eyes. She can tease and joke around with him as much as she wants, but she never seems to know what to do with a sincere compliment. “Anyway, I like being able to insult you in a language you don’t understand.”

“Well played,” she says with an appreciative nod as they come up to a crossing. “Is it down here?”

Yevgeny unlocks his phone to make sure they’re still on track, zooming in on the map.

“Nope,” he says, turning his phone this way and that to make sure the little dot turns with him, checking that they’re still facing the right way. “Says it’s another block.”

“Alright,” Sam gets them back on track as they cross the street, “tell me word for word what you said to him.”

“I don’t remember exactly–,” Yevgeny starts lying, even though he really should know better.

“Do you _want_ me to hack your computer later?” she cuts him off, shaking her head at him like she too thinks he should know better. “Bet I won’t have to dig deeper than your fucking desktop before I’ve got my hands on a file called something like ‘confronting_nick’, or whatever, with your whole little speech written out in at least three different drafts.”

Yevgeny sighs and looks up at the grey fall sky shifting above them. There wouldn’t even be any ‘hacking’ necessary, she knows his password.

“Does Nick like me, actually,” he mutters, rolling his eyes when she looks momentarily confused. “The file, it’s called ‘doesnicklikeme’, one word.”

“I want you to know I’m having a lot of fun right now,” Sam says and grins when Yevgeny can’t help huffing out a laugh.

“So, I said ‘Hi Nick’,” he recounts.

“Solid start.”

“I said, ‘Hi Nick,’,” he ignores her comment, bringing his prepared speech to mind the same way he’d done with Nick over lunch, only hours earlier. “‘It has been brought to my attention that some people express fondness by behaving immaturely, and that maybe the reason you’ve been extra annoying to me lately is because you like me.’”

Pausing to glance at his friend, Yevgeny is suddenly struck with uncertainty when he sees Sam staring back at him with wide eyes.

“That’s it?” she says.

“That’s when he started walking away,” Yevgeny explains, frustrated. “So I kinda had to compress my whole second paragraph to something like, um–,” he waves a hand at an imaginary Nick running away from them down the street. “‘Please don’t!’”

“Milkovich,” Sam says in mock awe, “you’re a stone cold bitch.”

“What? All I said was–,” Yevgeny groans and smacks his hands to his face, pushing up his glasses as he rubs at his eyes. “Oh god, you’re right, aren’t you? I can totally hear it now.”

“I’m always right,” Sam agrees, and now she’s quite clearly laughing at him and it’s only making Yevgeny feel a little bit better about the whole mess. “You really should have learned a long time ago to always run these things by me before trying them out on real people.”

“Guess I thought pertinence was the way to go,” he says and drops his hands. “I just didn’t want him to think I was disgusted or–, or like, offended by it, and I was trying to keep the possibility open that I’d been going on some unreliable intel here, and if he doesn’t like me then I don’t wanna be that guy, walking up to someone and assuming they’re into me just ‘cause–”

“Breathe,” Sam reminds him, taking him by the shoulder and shaking him lightly until he stops talking and inhales the fresh October air. He stops dead in his track and turns to look at her.

“I’m gonna have to talk to him again, don’t I?” he asks. Sam leaves her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it in genuine, albeit gleeful, sympathy.

“Now more than ever, Data.”

“You’ve never even watched TNG,” Yevgeny complains weekly, not knowing what else to say.

“Yeah, well, that’s life dude,” Sam agrees, taking out a pack of smokes. “You never get me watching Star Trek, and then you die.”

“What is this?” Yevgeny says, scowling at her as she shakes out a cigarette from the half-full pack and puts it to her lips. “Don’t do that. My dad will kill you if he sees you smoking!”

“Your dad?” Sam huffs, but does nothing to stop him when Yevgeny takes the cigarette off her lips and shoves it back into the pack. “The human chimney?”

“Yes,” Yevgeny says emphatically, pressing the pack back into her hands, “and he’s trying to quit.”

Sam scoffs, but she rolls her eyes and hides the pack away. “So let me be cool for twenty years and I promise I’ll ‘try to quit’ then, too.”

“Disgusting,” Yevgeny mutters and starts walking again, scanning the buildings for the right street sign.

“And your dad wouldn’t kill me,” Sam says with confidence, “he loves me.”

“He thinks you’re a no good punk bound for a life of crime,” Yevgeny corrects her as he directs them around a corner. “Basically, he thinks you’re him. And he’s not wrong.”

“Lovable rogues,” Sam decides, and points at a shop down the street with a nondescript ‘tattoo’ sign hanging outside it. “Is that it?”

They cross to the right side of the street to get a closer look, and Yevgeny suddenly feels a little nervous when the white canary logo covering almost the whole shop window comes into view.

“This is it,” he says, and tries not to sound like he doesn’t know what to do next.

Sam can probably tell, she usually can, and she always knows what to do next.

“Cool,” she says and disappears down the steps leading to the door. It jingles when she yanks it open, and Yevgeny has to stop thinking and scramble after her in order to catch it before it falls shut again.

“Hey Mickey!” she calls out as they step inside, and Yevgeny thinks he can hear his dad’s muffled ‘yeah?’ from somewhere. “You wouldn’t kill me if I started smoking, right?”

“‘Course not,” his dad walks out through a curtain-covered door and in behind the front desk, flashing Yevgeny a quick smile and a ‘hey kid’, before pointing a suspicious finger at Sam. “You’re not fucking smoking are you? Do we need to sit down and have a chat about this shit?”

“Kill me first,” Sam mutters, taking out her pack of cigarettes and throwing it at Mickey before crossing the room to make herself at home in one of the couches.

The two Milkoviches stare at each other for a second in shock.

“Gonna put this down to your good influence,” Mickey eventually says, pointing the pack at Yevgeny before stowing it away behind the desk.

Yevgeny grins. “Hey, dad.”

“Welcome to Jailbird Ink,” his dad says, spreading his arms out with a proud smile. “Want the tour?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny says.

“I’m good,” Sam announces from the couch, already reading one of the magazines laid out on the coffee table along with two big binders of designs.

“Ey,” Mickey says, snapping his fingers to get her attention. “Don’t touch anything, alright?”

“Yes pops, sir,” she says with a lazy salute, not bothering to look up from her magazine.

Shaking his head and doing a fairly poor job at hiding a smile, Mickey holds aside the curtain and gestures for Yevgeny to walk through to the back rooms.

There’s an unusual smell in the shop, Yevgeny noticed it the second they stepped inside, and now he can hear the distinct buzzing of tattoo guns over the faint sound of music and murmur of people talking somewhere in the building.

“There’s the office,” his dad says, passing behind him when Yevgeny stops to stick his nose into a dark room. He can tell through the gloom that it’s got a shelf stacked with files, two desks with large computers, and a huge printer in the corner. “Down here’s the kitchen.”

Passing it, Yevgeny doesn’t have to stop to get a good overview of the microwave, fridge, and sink combo passing for a kitchen nook.

“Yeah, I know it’s kinda shit,” Mickey says, stopping in front of a beaded curtain to knock on the doorjamb.

“It’s great,” Yevgeny says, coming up next to his dad as the buzzing suddenly stops.

“You good for a short break?” someone says, speaking a little louder after an affirmative mumble. “Adelante!”

“Sounds close enough to an invitation, doesn’t it?” his dad says, smirking as he tilts his head towards the doorway.

Carefully parting the beads, Yevgeny walks through them and into a larger, brightly lit room with frosted windows and three different stations set up and separated by foldable partitioners. There’s a beefy guy sitting on one of the adjustable leather chairs with one leg of his pants rolled up and the start of something sketched out on his half-shaved calf. Chano is sitting bent over his client’s leg, wiping the ink and blood off his work before he straightens up and turns around.

“Yevy!” He says when he sees him, snapping off his latex gloves and getting up from his chair. “It’s been too long, my friend, you doing good?”

“Yeah,” Yevgeny says and can’t help a happy giggle when Chano comes over and swoops him up in a warm hug.

He’s only seen Chano once since he got released, some six months before his dad had been. He’d come by the house just to say hi and Yevgeny had invited him in for dinner. It had been awkward without his dad there, his mom very obviously intimidating the crap out of Chano without even trying very hard, so it hadn’t turned into a regular thing.

In fact, Yevgeny resigned himself to believe his mom when she predicted that they’d never see the man again. But then his dad had been released, and Chano had offered him both a place to stay and a job – and maybe even a shot at some kind of career.

For almost a whole year when he first got put away, his dad had been cagey and disconnected whenever Yevgeny went out to Joliet with his mom to see him, looking more and more like a stranger with every visit. Then his old cellmate got released and Chano moved in, and little by little his dad started to return to him – the cuts and bruises would fade with the deep circles under his eyes and the tension in his shoulders, until he’d actually look Yevgeny in the eyes again and smile like he meant it.

Yevgeny knows that school is _nothing_ like prison, but he still imagines that both are infinitely easier to survive if you have a friend to get you through. And for all that, Chano will probably always remain one of Yevgeny’s favorite people in the whole wide world.

“Welcome to Jailbird,” he says, ruffling Yevgeny’s hair as he steps back. “Finally got you down here, huh? Hey, Eddie!”

Chano turns to beam at the beefy man on the bed. Eddie, apparently.

“This is my good friend Yevy, brightest kid you’ll ever meet,” he says, patting Yevgeny on the shoulder. “Gonna be a famous actor one day, or cure cancer, whatever he sets his mind to.”

Yevgeny adjusts his glasses and ducks his head in pleased embarrassment, shaking it when Eddie whistles approvingly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey cuts in, “and Eddie here’s your three o’clock, so stop tellin’ him my kid’s life story and get back to work so we can get outta here sometime before tomorrow, huh?”

“Runs a tight ship, your dad,” Chano says and smiles at Yevgeny as he walks over to a sink and starts disinfecting his hands, before pulling on a new pair of gloves. “Don’t know how we ever managed without him.”

“You got two years for dealing shit on the side,” Mickey complains and waves him off when Chano tries to protest. “That’s how you managed.”

“Not in front of company!” Chano wails dramatically, clutching at some imaginary pearls the air in front of him.

“I’m so disappointed in you, Ponciano,” Yevgeny lays it on thick, even managing to get a slight tremble in his voice, “I never knew.”

“You probably picked the wrong name for your shop you fellas wanted to keep all that a secret,” Eddie decides to pitch in, looking a little baffled by the whole scene, glancing between Chano and Mickey before turning to Yevgeny. “Right?”

“Right,” Yevgeny agrees with a wide smile, hoping the guy gets that they’re just joking around. About some of it, anyway.

“Ready?” Chano asks, sitting down in his chair and looking up at Eddie, who nods and scoots back on the chair so he can position his calf on the leg rest positioned directly in front of Chano.

“Go for it.”

“You gonna stick around for a while, right?” Chano asks as he picks up his tattoo gun, smiling at Yevgeny over his shoulder. “Lou said she’s coming by later and I know for a fact she’s been dying to meet you.”

Yevgeny looks at his dad, who raises his eyebrows and shrugs.

“Told your mom we might be late,” he says, and looks pleased when Yevgeny smiles. “Thought we could close up shop and get some takeout once everybody’s done for the day.”

“And by ‘everybody’, I got a little suspicion he means you and me,” Chano says to Eddie with a grin, and the gun starts buzzing again. “But don’t worry, my friend, there’s no siren song in this world that can make me do a rush job.”

Yevgeny lingers for a moment to watch as Chano bends over Eddie’s leg in concentration and starts to slowly drag the moving needle over a thin blue line connecting two already filled in parts of the tattoo, before he follows his dad back to the front room.

“–been friends for a while, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, as Yevgeny fumbles his way through the curtain door. She is still sitting with a magazine on her lap, but now she’s joined by a lady with big, round glasses and even bigger hair, sitting cross legged on the opposite couch and smiling brightly at him when he stumbles into the room after his dad.

“Oh wow!” she exclaims. “Look at you, mini Mickey!”

“Yev,” his dad sighs and gestures towards the friendly lady. “Jess. Jess, Yevgeny.”

“Finally, I’ve heard so much about you, Yev,” Jess says and pats the couch. She has colorful tattoos covering her whole arms, disappearing up under the sleeves of her loose dress. “Join us, tell me everything about yourself.”

“And you make sure to let me know when you want out,” his dad mutters, leaning closer but still talking loud enough for the whole room to hear him. “You remember the signal?”

Yevgeny shakes his head in embarrassment.

“Dad, come on,” he mumbles and rolls his eyes when his dad looks at him expectantly. ”Squawk.”

“What’s that?” his dad asks, raising his eyebrows. “How am I gonna save you if I can’t hear you?”

“You too, Mickey,” Jess cuts in, smiling wickedly when they look her way. “Come sit down, I’m sure work can wait.”

Already deciding that he likes Jess, Yevgeny sits down next to Sam and accepts a cookie when his friend wordlessly passes him the package.

“Mickey says you’re doing a play for school?” Jess asks, smiling at Mickey when he mutters something and sits down next to her.

“Yeah,” Yevgeny says and takes a bite out of his cookie, trying not to get crumbs everywhere when he goes on; “We put on a show every year and Sam and I are in year eight now, so we kinda get to run it this time.”

“It’s all you, dude,” Sam says, giving him a crooked smile when he looks at her. “Yevy picked the play and went nuclear nerd over summer, working on the script.”

“It’s Treasure Island,” Yevgeny explains, “and it’s not just me, everyone helps out, even the parents.”

“I’m just in it ‘cause I can’t resist his puppy eyes,” Sam says and laughs when Yevgeny throws the remaining half of his cookie at her. She picks it up off her shirt and eats it with a triumphant sound before he can reclaim it.

“And dad, is he helping out?” Jess asks, looking at Mickey.

“Don’t you fucking start–,” he complains, pressing his lips together and screwing his eyes shut when Jess makes a loud noise to shut him up, leaning closer to bump shoulders with him.

“You could help out with the set design,” she says, undeterred when Mickey sighs and shakes his head.

“That’s what I said,” Yevgeny points out, grinning apologetically when his dad opens his eyes to give him a betrayed look.

“And I said it’s not gonna happen,” he says, raising his eyebrows in shock and turning his head to look at Sam when she boos. “Et fuckin’ tu, Brute?”

“Hey, get with the times,” Sam says and rifles through Yevgeny’s bag for a second to pull out a script and throw it across the table at Mickey and Jess. “Embracing your truth is what it’s all about now, old man, and my truth is very much in line with this crazy chick right here, dush dush!”

“Jesus, okay, whatever you say,” Mickey mutters and starts flipping through the script. “Who do I gotta be this time?”

“Scene fourteen?” Yevgeny asks Sam and turns back to his dad when she nods. “Scene fourteen. I’m Silver, she’s Joan–”

“The Goat,” Sam supplies when he points to her.

“Joan the Goat,” Yevgeny agrees. “You can fight over the rest of the crew.”

“I’m Dick!” Jess exclaims and grabs on to Mickey’s arm when she leans in closer to read over his shoulder. “No, Hands! No! I wanna be Badger!”

Yevgeny suddenly feels strangely uneasy as he watches his dad huff out a laugh and lean out of Jess’ way, prying her hands off his arm when a phone rings over by the reception.

“You can be the whole crew,” he says, passing the script over to her as he gets off the couch. He walks across the room and in behind the counter, picking up a cordless phone and sandwiching it between his ear and shoulder as he stirs the computer back to life with a couple of taps at the keyboard.

Yevgeny thinks he sounds exactly like himself when he answers the call and starts setting up an appointment, but he also thinks he’s never heard his dad talking like that ever before. He sounds confident, and at ease, and there’s none of the terse defensiveness he usually gets stuck in his voice when he’s talking to other adults at Yevgeny’s school.

But it’s really _brilliant_ to see him like this, so that can’t be what’s making him so uneasy.

“Hey, Yevy,” Jess says, and Yevgeny suddenly realizes that he’s probably been staring at his dad for a bit too long, and he’s still frowning when he turns back to look at Jess.

She seems nice, but he’s slowly realizing that the thing that’s got him so concerned is seeing her with her hands all over his dad, smiling at him and joking with him. Yevgeny knows all about these things now, his eyes are wide open, and he isn’t at all sure he likes it.

His dad has been forced to hide and be ashamed of who he is for way too long in his life, and Yevgeny absolutely hates the idea that some of his new friends don’t know about him. Or maybe won’t accept him if they did.

But then Jess smiles and shakes her head lightly, as though she can read his thoughts.

“I hope you’ll sell me a couple of those hot, hot tix for the premiere,” she says and leans forward a little. “My girlfriend’s got a real thing for pirates, I bet she’d love to see you guys perform.”

And just like that, the anxious knot dissolves inside Yevgeny until all that’s left is relief and a little bit of embarrassment. He grins apologetically at her and nods, but Sam scoffs next to him.

“Let’s get through this fucking scene first, huh?” she says. “Then you can decide if it’s worth your money.”

“Great,” Jess says with a wide, infectious smile, “where do we start?”

Perking up, Yevgeny folds in his left leg under him on the couch and clears his throat.

“Thanks to who?” he says in Long John Silver’s voice, giving Jess an in-character glare when she cheers.

“Thanks to you, John Silver!” she reads from the script.

“We are now the majority,” Yevgeny says, pointing out at the feet walking by the windows. “We near the island.”

“Where our six shipmates vanished so strangely,” Jess says and looks up from the page with a dramatic sigh. “And now do seem to–”

“Walk in our heads,” Sam cuts her off, smacking her hand against the side of her head three times as she exclaims; “Dush! Dush! Dush!”

“Like ghosts!” Jess wails, making both Sam and Yevgeny laugh. “Fantasmas!”

“Which is as nothing,” Yevgeny starts and stands up, wobbling a little with one foot on the floor and the other still resting on the seat behind him. “Which is as nothing to who walks my head, always!”

“Flint!” Jess gasps.

“Flint, my captain!” Yevgeny exclaims and nods eagerly, pointing first at Jess and then Sam. “Flint, who I killed in his bed. For why?”

“For treasure, Silver,” his dad mutters from across the room, still busy typing at the computer when all three of them look his way. Yevgeny grins proudly when Jess whoops.

“For treasure for who?” he says, raising his arms in the air, triumphantly.

“For us, Long John!”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤


	14. You're always on my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings:  
> Gay slur in the first part of the chapter (2015), along with;  
> Prison setting and angst.  
> Mention of hospital and potentially life-threatening illness in a young child.

.

Part Fourteen

**“You’re always on my mind”**

_Featuring_ Mickey Milkovich _as_ Mickey  
  


_Starring_

Yevgeny Milkovich as Yevgeny (age 10)  
Ponciano Rosiquez as Chano  
  


_With special guest appearance by_

Ian Gallagher as Ian  
  


~*¨*~

_2015_

There’s a radio playing somewhere as Mickey is walked back to his cell. The tinny sound seems to fill the wide open space between the rows of locked doors, refusing to be drowned out by the heavy steps rattling over the grated metal floors. He stares down at his white shoes as his feet take step after step without his say so, bringing him back to the small room where he’s bound to spend the next five years of his life.

Focusing on the heavy hand on his right shoulder, and the other gripping him just above the left elbow, he imagines for a second that they’re there for comfort and breathes, just like the doc told him to. In, four seconds, hold it four seconds, out four seconds. Again.

His vision blurs and he shuts his eyes over it, shaking his head at himself.

They stop and the hands lift off him as one of the COs stands next to him, speaking into his comms for control to unlock Cell 2368 while the other removes Mickey’s cuffs.

Rolling his shoulders, Mickey steps through the now open door and into his dark cell, not bothering to turn around or acknowledge the guards as they lock up behind him and walk away.

Quiet surrounds him, the music can’t reach him here and the guards’ heavy footsteps fade quickly. All he’s got left is the soft breathing of his new cellmate, and the mindless buzzing in his head. He sits down on the bottom bunk and stares into the dark, absently rubbing at the grooves in his wrists until they smooth out and he’s left wringing his hands in a desperate attempt to keep himself together as he breathes; in four seconds, hold it four seconds, out four seconds. Fucking in four seconds, hold it, out.

He doesn’t notice that the soft snoring has been replaced by his own ragged breathing until the bunk shakes and his cellmate suddenly drops into view and silently sits down next to him. Mickey wipes at his wet nose and scowls, bending his head to try and hide his weak state.

“He okay?” Rosiquez asks, tentatively placing a hand on his shoulder.

Mickey violently shrugs it off.

“Don’t touch me, faggot.”

“Whoa,” Rosiquez backs off, hands in the air as he gives Mickey some space. “No need for that kinda language, wey. We’re locked up but we’re not animals yet, you get me?”

Mickey scowls at him for a second, momentarily distracted by the possibility that this guy isn’t here to play the game or act the part. Then he shakes his head and huffs, leaning his elbows on his knees so he doesn’t have to look his cellmate in the face. In the dark, his concern appears deceptively genuine.

“Fuck off back to sleep, asshole,” Mickey mutters. “This ain’t none of your business.”

“How long you got left in here, man?” Rosiquez asks, like Mickey politely begged him to back off and the guy figured he’s got a fucking choice in the matter.

He should show him what happens to people asking stupid questions in here. He should–, he should…

Mickey sighs and feels himself surrender to the bone-deep exhaustion sagging his shoulders and corrupting his defense. He can beat on the guy come morning if he changes his mind about all this, once the bright tungsten lights come on and remind him of where he is, and what he’s got to do in order to survive.

“Five,” he says, “up for parole in three.”

“Two,” Rosiquez offers back, before clicking his tongue. “Well, I say two but it’s more like two and then some. Guess I gotta get used to saying the whole thing or I’ll be setting myself up for some real disappointment, right?”

Mickey stares at his hands and tries to remember how many days it’s been. Four hundred something at least, probably. He doesn’t want to count how many he’s got left.

“Two years, one hundred and sixty days,” Rosiquez says and lets out an impressed whistle at the thought. “Guess fifty-six now, huh?”

“Congrats,” Mickey mutters, rubbing his useless hands together. “See what’s gonna die first, you or this fuckin’ happy-go-lucky attitude of yours.”

“Well,” Rosiquez chuckles dryly, “guess that largely depends on you, doesn’t it? Roomie.”

Twisting his neck to glare at him over his shoulder, Mickey could swear the man still looks as openly genuine as he did before. He wants to tell him that deciding to depend on _anyone_ in here is a surefire way of getting himself killed, real quick, especially if he’s stupid enough to stack his cards with Mickey.

But this is also the first real conversation he’s had with anyone in here since he got locked up, and the simple act of it makes it very obvious that he has been drowning in his solitude since day one. He stopped being a fortress some time ago, and he hates himself a little bit more with each day he’s forced to walk these hallways in his old shoes, speaking a language and wearing a face he thought he’d never have to live with again.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he sighs, closing his eyes for a second.

“Oh yeah, sure, but my friends call me Chano,” Rosiquez says and holds out his hand, and Mickey only hesitates for a couple of beats before he takes it.

“Mickey.”

“How about that,” Chano says and lets go, his easy smile dropping. “Now can I ask if he’s okay?”

Mickey frowns and twists back to rest his elbows on his knees again, the whole awful night flooding back in with the question as he wipes a hand across his face.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Shit–, yeah. He’s gonna be fine. Fever broke a couple of hours ago, doc said he’s gonna be fine.”

“How old is he?” Chano asks, voice low in the dark.

“Ten,” Mickey says, nodding to himself. “He’s ten. Nine when I got locked up, gonna be fifteen before I get out.”

He’s been holding himself up all night, sitting on the uncomfortable chairs outside Yevgeny’s room at the hospital with Svetlana on one side and a Correctional Officer on the other, feeling like a specter moving through a plane of reality where he no longer belongs.

One tether left, anchoring him in some kind of future, pulling and fraying and fighting to stay alive in the room behind him.

He lets himself crumble, and he allows himself the small comfort of Chano’s warm hand slowly moving over his bent and shaking back, wordlessly soothing in the dark morning hours until the tears have dried and the lights go on, and they can cross off another day.

_2018_

“Here,” Mickey says, turning around as they amble out the door to thrust the stack of pizza boxes at Chano.

“I payed and now you want me carrying, as well?” he protests, holding up his hands and refusing to take the boxes as they start walking down the sidewalk. “You think this a fair division of labor?”

“Just grab ‘em for a second, Jesus,” Mickey complains, rolling his eyes and holding the boxes out in front of his friend until he gives in and takes them off his hands. “Fuckin’ Christ, thank you, was that so hard?”

“As your Lord and Savior,” Chano says and sighs contently, always happy to indulge in the long-running joke between them where Mickey takes the Lord’s name in vain and Chano ups the blasphemy by assuming he’s being directly addressed. “I suppose I might’ve carried out one or two trickier tasks in service of humanity, in the past. But I don’t think I ever had to shell out forty bucks before performing any of my OG miracles.”

“Uh-huh,” Mickey mutters around the cigarette clamped between his lips as he lights it up, stashing away his lighter again before gesturing at Chano to hand back the boxes. “Famously did a whole lot less complaining back then, too.”

“I move with the times,” Chano says and bows his head as he’s passing on the pizza. “Think they call it character development.”

“In the sequel nobody fucking asked for,” Mickey points out, balancing the stack of boxes on one hand so he can take the cigarette from his lips for a second and blow some smoke in his hyperbolic friend’s general direction. “The Bible 2: Electric Boogaloo.”

Chano laughs and throws an arm across Mickey’s shoulders as they turn a corner. “You’re the only one I know who can still deadass make that joke with a straight face.”

“The fuck did you call my face?” Mickey asks, making a point to arch his eyebrows excessively as he’s wedging the filter of his cigarette back between his lips.

“Apologies, wey, and not my point,” Chano chuckles. “Pretty sure that joke’s been dead since like, 2005.”

“Bull- _shit_ ,” Mickey says with a defiant snort, and he’s rearing up for a good rant when he suddenly sees Ian walking their way and the unexpected sight of him completely derails whatever point he was about to make.

Ian on the other hand doesn’t look like he’s noticed them yet, eyes fixed on the ground ahead of him and his jaw set in a grim expression, knuckles white in a tight grip around the handle of his cane as he leans on it with every other step.

Mickey thinks he probably knew about the whole cane situation from Yevgeny, but it’s very obvious now that he’s never actually seen Ian with it before.

“Mickey,” Chano says, regarding him curiously when Mickey looks his way. “You were just about to tell me I’m wrong about something?”

“Yev’s teacher,” Mickey barely explains and nods in Ian’s direction. Flicking away his cigarette, he shrugs Chano’s arm off his shoulders. “Ey, Gallagher!”

Ian slows down to a halt and looks up, but there’s no sign of recognition or surprise when he sees them walking towards him.

Mickey isn’t sure what he expected, but he wouldn’t have been averse to a simple ‘hello’, or maybe just seeing that casual little smirk Ian usually throws his way whenever they’ve bumped into each other so far. Instead his eyes dart from Mickey to Chano and then back again, and his face remains passive as they finally come together on the sidewalk.

“Hey,” he says, “what’s up?”

“Nothing much,” Mickey admits, frowning when Ian’s eyes seems to dip to the ground between them, like the grey slabs of concrete are more interesting than anything going on around Mickey and his face. “Movie night, gettin’ pizza.”

“Right,” Ian says and nods, a tense line appearing around the corner of his lips. And Mickey wouldn’t pretend to know this guy in any sense of the word, but he sure looks like someone who might’ve gotten some real bad news.

“You okay?” he asks, and it really only supports his bad feeling when Ian clearly tries to turn his tense scowl into some kind of smile and fails spectacularly.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just–,” he starts and then drops the smile again, like he can’t be bothered trying to pretend for more than a second. “Bad day.”

“You need help with anything?” Chano asks, throwing Mickey a concerned glance before turning all his attention back to Ian.

“No,” Ian says, his stern expression softening a little when he looks at Chano. “Thanks, I’m just gonna… go.”

“Alright,” Mickey allows, but he probably sounds about as convinced as he’s feeling when Ian nods and starts walking past them.

“Sorry,” he says, but puts a little more effort into the vague smile he’s shooting in Mickey’s direction as he’s passing. “Later.”

Scowling in utter confusion, and a surprising amount of concern, Mickey stands glued to his spot on the sidewalk and stares after Ian’s bent neck as he disappears down the street.

“Fuck’s his problem?” he wonders out loud and glares at Chano when he chuckles. He’s got a cheeky twinkle in his eye as he regards Mickey knowingly.

“Dude’s into you,” he says, smiling wider when Mickey stares at him in disbelief.

“Shut the fuck up,” he demands, refusing to even entertain the possibility that his son’s hot English teacher’s got any sort of thing for him.

Scratch ‘hot’. His _son’s English teacher_ , fucking period.

“Nah, I’m serious,” Chano insists, his gleeful smile giving in to the very face of sincerity. “Guy looked like he’s got the woes of the world on his shoulders, but he still managed to give me some real stink-eye when he saw us comin’.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Mickey complains, torn between wanting to shut the whole thing down and maybe just a little bit of dumb hope at the thought of someone like Ian even looking his way. “Really?”

“Bro,” Chano says and nods emphatically. “Guy looked like he wanted to go all Venom on my ass and bite my whole head off, I swear.”

“Please, don’t–, just,” Mickey says with a wince, holding up a hand to make him stop talking. “That whole thing, just don’t. Also, stop tryna spoil fucking Venom for me, dude!”

“What did I spoil?” Chano asks, the pitch of his voice climbing defensively with every word. “I said he bites people’s heads off, that’s like basic general Venom knowledge.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, both annoyed and relieved to be moving away from Ian and his supposed jealousy. “For a fuckin’ nerd, maybe.”

Chano huffs and narrows his eyes at him.

“I’m gonna ignore that and give you some good advice, ‘cause that’s just the kinda friend I am,” he says, pointing Mickey squarely in the chest. “Next time you see that guy, you tell him I got a lady and you’ll see.”

Mickey swats away his poking finger and scowls at his useless best friend, filling him with stupid ideas and kindling torches he never fucking asked to carry.

“See what?” he demands, despite better knowledge.

Chano grins.

“Those stink-eyes gonna turn into hearts,” he says, “like a motherfucking cartoon.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fate is like, you boys gonna be bumping into each other around every dang corner until you get your shit together and get smooching.


	15. Crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warning:  
> Hospital setting with allusions to severe injury, and heavy sedation in the first part (2008)

.

Part Fifteen

**“Crazy”**

_Featuring_ Ian Gallagher _as_ Ian  
  


_Starring_

Fiona Gallagher as Fiona  
  


_With_

Liam Gallagher as Liam  
  


_And_

Mickey Milkovich as Endless Possibility  
  


~*¨*~

_2008  
_

“–it’s enough to cover your accumulated hospital bills and legal fees, as well as any required future therapy, _physical_ therapy, medication–”

“Forty fucking years of it?”

“Might be overstating the generosity of what’s essentially a government pension, but yes. That’s the general idea. The army really dropped the ball with this one, and the one piece of good news in all of this is that they seem to know it.”

Ian stares at the general shape of a man standing by the foot of his bed, the voice is vaguely familiar but he can’t make his eyes focus on his face. They slip off, like he’s teflon.

“This deal is most likely the best you’re gonna get,” the blur says, and Ian slowly manages to move his head through the thick air until the shape of his sister comes back into view. Almost in focus, she’s standing closer, holding a pale hand in both of hers.

“Considering the circumstances.”

There’s a rush of cool air over his dry teeth, the skin over his cheeks stretching uncomfortably. Ian wonders absently if he needs his body anymore considering the collection of circumstances he seems to have become while he was out cold. It doesn’t seem to be working properly.

Something moves to his left, and trying to turn his head he feels like the whole room tilts over. Distantly there’s a dull echo of a blast, turning his world upside down as screaming tires and the booming noise of the crash is replaced by a persistent tone, and he thinks there’s a question he wants to ask. Something important. Something he _needs_ to ask.

“Yeah,” his sister says, and her eyes are wide when he turns his head and finds them again in the focused center of his blurry vision. He must have managed to ask the question, even though he still doesn’t know what it is.

“Ian,” she says, blinking rapidly, “you hurt _yourself_.”

His eyes feel heavy, and his throat is too big. _Good_ , he thinks, and maybe he said that out loud too, because his sister is leaking.

Closing his eyes, Ian rests his head back, and he is falling slowly through several feet of space before he’s sinking down into his pillow, down down, until his sister’s words become a distant murmur.  
  


_2018  
_

“Can you believe that?” Fiona huffs, picking up the lid off the pot of boiling water, steam wafting up at her face as she shakes her head. “He thought I’d been talking shit about him the whole time, to the whole office!”

“Probably knows you’d have good reason to, huh?” Ian says, stirring through the sauce as his sister measures out the pasta next to him.

“Probably thinks I want his job,” Fiona adds, picking up a wooden spoon to gently push down the spaghetti into the boiling water.

Ian smirks at her. “Which you do.”

“Which I do,” she easily admits, “but not by talking shit and stabbing the guy in the back, Jesus, that’s what he thinks of me?”

Rolling his eyes at his sister’s indignation, he leaves the sauce to open a cupboard. “Lip’s gonna be here for sure?”

Fiona snorts, but nods as she sets the timer for the pasta. “Eventually, yeah.”

“He probably thinks that way of everybody, right?” Ian brings it back to Fiona’s ass of a co-worker, counting out six plates and carrying them over to the table. “Says more about him than you that he thinks you’d say any of that shit behind his back.”

“I guess,” Fiona says and turns around to lean back against the counter and watch Ian setting the table. “But enough about me, I’ve been chewing your ear off about my office drama since you came home, kiddo, what about you? What’s going on with you?”

Digging out the right amount of cutleries from a drawer, Ian uses the disruptive noise to take a moment before he answers.

“Nothing much,” he says, shoving the drawer closed with his hip before slowly moving around the table to set out the knives and forks. “Made an appointment with a new therapist.”

“Oh Ian,” Fiona sighs, her eyes round with sympathy when he looks her way. “Is it ‘cause you’re been on a downswing lately?”

Closing his eyes for a second, Ian wills himself not to get annoyed by her instant concern. _She is allowed to care,_ he thinks as he is carefully placing down another fork, _she’s allowed to not get it before you’ve explained it._

“No I–, no. It’s not like that,” he says. “I’m still seeing Dr Maynard once a month and, yeah–, I’ve had a tough couple of weeks, but it hasn’t been worse than usual. We decided to stick with this cocktail through my next upswing, see how it works out.”

He looks up at her again to check if she’s at all placated by his medical update, and she raises her eyebrows and nods at him to go on.

“This new therapist does CBT,” he explains, moving around the table to place out the rest of the cutleries and turn his back on her confused frown. “Wanna try and talk to her about all the shit that isn’t you know, from the army or the bipolar.”

“What shit?” Fiona asks, an almost defensive edge to her voice now.

Ian sighs and puts down the last fork before he turns around, gripping the back of a kitchen chair for support.

“I don’t know,” he says, like it’s a fucking reflex.

And it is, he never seems able to tell her about any of the number of things going on with him, that’s wrong with him. It’s on the tip of his tongue to list the whole of his fucked up life to her, now, to walk across the room and shove all the shit he’s got in his baggage in her face so she won’t just know it, but feel it too. _Monica_ , he’d say, letting the name speak for itself. _Fucking Frank, slapping me around at any chance? Fucking Kash or whatever fucking reason there is why I’ve been boning older, married guys since I was fourteen, thinking I was never good enough to be loved._ He doesn’t _know_ , that’s the whole fucking point.

Pressing his lips together, he lowers his gaze to the floor and swallows the bitter thought. None of that is fair on Fiona. She’s got enough of her own to deal with when it comes to their parents, and it’s not her fault that he never told her about any of the rest.

“We had a shitty childhood, Ian,” she says, huffing out a tired laugh. “Don’t think there’s any combination of letters they can come up with to fix that.”

He looks up at her and tries to mirror her apologetic smile. They’ve never been good at talking to each other about this stuff, but at least they both know it.

“Not trying to fix it, Fi,” he tries to explain, without going into the specifics. “Just wanna break some of the patterns I’m stuck in… with guys and shit, I guess.”

“Alright,” she says, holding up her hands and giving him one of her disarming smiles before turning around to check on the pasta. “It’s your money, kiddo. You do what you want with it, okay?”

And there it is; the end of that conversation. It went just about as well as he’d imagined.

“I will,” he says, and goes to grab some cups from the counter.

“Speaking of _guys_ ,” Fiona says, obviously latching on to a less infested subject, if only by a little. “You seeing anyone?”

“No,” Ian says, before a flash of a smile flickers through his mind. A quickened pulse under his fingertips as he’s resting them gently on Mickey’s wrist. Just a brief touch, yet it lingers with him longer than most.

“No?” Fiona asks, perceptive as ever.

“No,” Ian reiterates firmly as he sets down the stacks of cups on the table with a grimace. “There is someone, though.”

Fiona makes a triumphant sound. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ian huffs and sits down, clasping his hands together on top of the table. Maybe he won’t be able to be honest with his sister about all the things he did and had done to him growing up, but he can choose to start sharing stuff as they happen. “Thought it was just a dumb crush, but now I’m not so sure.“

Smiling wryly at himself, he tries to ignore the unreasonable jealousy slowly churning inside him whenever he recalls the _guy_ , laughing and slinging an arm across Mickey’s shoulders. Maybe he’s just a friend, maybe it’s none of Ian’s goddamned business who he is, or what he is to Mickey.

Maybe seeing them together made it clear that he’s already got it bad, and that it probably won’t do him any good.

“So,” Fiona prompts, still sounding way too happy about the whole thing. “Who is it?”

Ian considers for a moment mentioning that he’s falling for a Milkovich, but then decides against it. The less Fiona knows about Mickey, the better. “He’s a parent.”

“Ian,” Fiona says, managing to pack a whole punch of disappointment and judgement into one, short name. Ian nods, hoping that agreeing with her off the bat is going to cut the lecture short.

“I know.”

“You’re finally doing okay,” she reminds him, “don’t go fucking it all up over some guy.”

“Jesus,” he sighs, “I’m not gonna do that.”

“Believe me I know everything there is to know about self-sabotage,” she goes on, turning around to point the wooden spoon at him, ignoring the fact that he isn’t fighting her on any of it. “ _Especially_ when it comes to fucking the wrong guys. It’s never worth it.”

“Come on Fi, it’s not–,” Ian starts, pulling a hand through his hair as he grapples for a way to defend himself, “not like I’ve been like–, dragging him into utility closets to bang, or whatever you’re thinking, I’m not _you_ –”

He snaps his mouth closed and shuts his eyes with a frustrated sigh.

“That was–,” he says, opening his eyes again in time to see her nod.

“Fair.”

“Yeah,” he says and grins when she lets out an indignant gasp and throws the nearest loose object at his head. Turns out it’s an oven mitt, and she laughs as it smacks him squarely in the face.

“But really fucking unnecessary,” he insists with an apologetic smile. “I’m just sayin’ I know it’s a bad idea, alright? And I’m not gonna make a move or anything, it’s just–”

“Just what?”

“It’s stupid,” he mutters and rolls his eyes when all she does is wait for him to go on. “You know all that cheesy crap about seeing someone and immediately just… know? Like, _this is it_.”

Fiona makes a mildly disgusted face. “Ian, what the fuck?”

“I know, believe me I know,” Ian says, holding up his hands in defense. “Kinda want to punch myself just hearing it out loud, but also…”

He looks down at his hands and can’t help smiling when he thinks about it. About _him_. Ian can’t remember a time when he’d ever bought into the whole ‘love at first sight’ bullshit, and it’s not like that concept would apply here either. Mickey has been a fixture in his awareness of the world since he was five years old and the grubby neighborhood kid got kicked out of their little league after peeing on first base. But having their paths cross again after all these years, Ian can’t help looking at Mickey and see endless possibility.

And it makes him wonder, if maybe that’s all there is to it. Seeing someone, and seeing some kind of future promise. Calling it ‘love at first sight’ is doing it a disservice, in Ian’s mind. Love is _grown_ , and _earned_ , and entirely different from the spark of excitement and immediate attraction of a crush. Seeing the possibility of a future in someone else seems like a whole other ballgame, now, having unexpectedly experienced it for himself.

He’s had crushes before, and he thinks he has loved before, but he’s never felt like this. Like his whole life is vibrating at the seams, itching to realign itself next to Mickey’s given half a chance.

It’s an idiotic thought to have about someone he barely even knows, and not something that’s likely to go down well with Fiona. He isn’t sure what he wants her to tell him, but he’s got a sneaking suspicion that he might have had his hopes up for getting her permission to go for it. Or maybe he’s just looking for someone to slap him out of his romantic delusion.

Ian groans and leans back in his chair.

“I don’t know, I just–,” he sighs, knowing full well what she’s going to say if he even tried to justify acting on his feelings. “Can’t get him outta my head.”

“Well, you gotta,” she says, throwing up her hands. “Just forget it and move on. Whoever this guy is, Ian, he’s not worth throwing away your whole future.”

Frowning, Ian fights against the urge to dismiss anything she’s trying to tell him. She doesn’t have the best track record with guys, and a lot of the time he can’t help feeling like she tends to advise him on his love life more based on her own experience, rather than actually listening to anything he has to say. She screwed up bad at her first temp job, by screwing the boss and then the boss’ brother, and this somehow always seems to translate into any and all mixing of business and private is a Bad Thing, no matter the specifics.

But she also _isn’t_ saying anything he doesn’t already know. Getting involved with Mickey could get messy and confusing for Yevgeny, complicate shit even worse between Mickey and his ex-wife, and potentially hurt Ian’s career if the school board found out. He’s got enough stacked against him as it is, without adding an affair with a student’s parent to the pile.

And seeing as his emotional impulses haven’t always been the most reliable, maybe he should think twice about following his heart. It’s a depressing thought, but it also makes him wonder if it’s really his feelings for Mickey that’s got him so turned around, or if he’s actually just grieving the normal, carefree love life he’s never gonna get the chance to have.

Whichever way you look at it, the conclusion is more or less the same.

“You’re right,” he says.

“‘Course I am,” Fiona smiles at him when he looks up, but it drops the second they hear a suspicious thud from somewhere in the house. “Liam!”

“It wasn’t me!” Liam yells from the second floor.

“Yeah, right,” Fiona mutters and is halfway out the kitchen when the timer goes off. “Shit!”

“Got it!” Ian calls after her, already on his feet and turning off the burner.

“Hey,” she says, popping her head back into the room. “You want me to set you up?”

“What?” Ian frowns at the spaghetti as he drains it over the sink.

“Get over this guy by getting under someone else,” his sister very helpfully elaborates, wagging her eyebrows at him when he sets aside the empty pot and looks up at her. “Or over them, I don’t know your preference.”

Ian only has to open his mouth to answer, and she’s holding up a hand to stop him.

“No, God, don’t tell me,” she says, “just a yes or no is enough.”

“Don’t know,” Ian stalls, he’s not really interested in going on a date with some stranger. And if he was, he wouldn’t have much trouble finding one on his own. “What’s he like?”

“I don’t know, Ian,” she says, rolling her eyes and clearly making fun of his skepticism. “He’s hot and he likes dick, and he’s not the father of one of your students! Isn’t that good enough?”

Ian huffs, crossing his arms as he leans back against the kitchen island. ‘Good enough’ seems a long way away from ‘endless possibility’, but maybe that’s the whole point.

“Guess, yeah.”

She lights up like fucking Christmas tree. “Yeah?”

Wincing, Ian has a feeling he’s going to regret this, one way or another. But she is his sister, and she isn’t wrong.

“Sure.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time flies when you're having fun, can't believe we're on 15 already :/ thank you all for reading!
> 
> [Willie Nelson & Johnny Cash](https://youtu.be/ubi_5SQKrYY)


	16. Christmas mission

.

Part Sixteen

**“Christmas mission”**

_Featuring_ Yevgeny Milkovich _as_ Yevgeny  
  


_Starring_

Mickey Milkovich as Dad  
Ian Gallagher as Mr Gallagher AKA Ian  
  


_With_

Fiona’s Friend as The Back of Some Asshat’s Head  
  


_And_

Tom Hardy as Eddie/Venom  
  


~*¨*~

“Twenty-five dollars,” his dad mutters as they get out of the line, “and thirty-fucking-eight cents, when did going to the movies get so expensive?”

“When you started paying for it instead of sneaking in through the back,” Yevgeny says and giggles when his dad smacks him in the face with the tickets.

“Ey,” he huffs, “I will not have you rewriting history here, kid, conveniently forgetting about the hundreds of hours and dollars I’ve spent watching all G-rated fuckin’ cartoons in this place, just so you can mouth off to your old man.”

“Mouth off,” Yevgeny snorts, shaking his head and just barely managing to duck out of the way when his dad attacks him with the tickets again.

“That’s right,” he says, “I know what you’re up to, practically tryna gaslight me into thinking thirteen bucks is a reasonable price to pay for a fucking movie ticket. Jesus, I’m away for four stinking years and this is what the world is like now, gotta pay thirteen bucks to watch Tom Hardy contract a parasite and fucking Trump’s in the White House, holy fuck.”

Yevgeny lets his dad rant it off, and decides against pointing out that part of the reason for the inflated price is that Yevgeny went from ‘kid’ to ‘adult’ in the eyes of the AMC while his dad was away. He is probably already well aware, anyway, seeing as he usually only starts grousing about Trump’s presidency when he wants to distract people from something else going on.

They’ve walked away from the box office and through the doors to the large vestibule, shuffling along with the crowd toward the two ushers checking tickets for the multiple screens on the other side of the rope. There are a bunch of people waiting in line by the concession stand, and some gadding around off to the side waiting for their screen to be announced.

A group of teenagers move toward the restrooms, clearing up a chunk of space in the middle of the room and giving Yevgeny a direct line of sight to the two men talking in the far corner.

“Look,” he says and pulls his dad back by the sleeve when he starts moving with the line, “it’s Mr Gallagher.“

His dad looks around the room as the line continues to move around them.

“Over there,” Yevgeny says and tries to discreetly nod in the direction of his teacher, wincing when his dad spins around in the most obvious way possible. Mr Gallagher and his friend don’t seem to notice though, so it’s fine.

“Huh,” his dad says, “you wanna go say hello?”

“Probably not,” Yevgeny says, not because he doesn’t want to, but because disturbing Mr Gallagher when he is out on a Saturday night with a friend seems like something which might not be appreciated. But he kind of wants to. “You think that’s alright?”

His dad checks his watch and clicks his tongue.

“We’ve got time,” he says, like that’s the issue, and waves at Yevgeny to walk with him as he starts moving. “C’mon.”

Mr Gallagher seems in deep conversation with his companion, but as they get closer Yevgeny thinks he looks strangely aggravated, listening to the other man talk.

“–signed up for a good time,” the guy says as they get close enough to hear him, “your sister didn’t tell me you came with all of this… small print.”

“I don’t–,” Mr Gallagher says, exasperation clear in his voice and a deeply annoyed line marking his furrowed brow. “You know what? Fuck you.”

Yevgeny grabs his dad’s arm to stop him, intending to turn them around and leave Mr Gallagher to his privacy when the guy laughs.

“Wow, you must be some English teacher,” he says. “ _You_ know what? I’m gonna go watch this movie, and you _really_ don’t have to follow.”

Mr Gallagher stares after the guy as he leaves, and Yevgeny is just about to suggest to his dad that they leave too, when the angry scowl seems to melt from Mr Gallagher’s face and he ducks his head. He looks sad, and Yevgeny has taken another couple of steps forward before he’s given it any thought.

“Hey, Mr Gallagher,” he says, holding up a hand in greeting when Mr Gallagher looks up and sees them.

“Yevgeny,” he says and blinks, some of his usual, stoic composure returning as he straightens his back and his eyes flit between Yevgeny and his dad. “Mickey.”

“You’re seeing a movie?” Yevgeny asks, not really knowing what else to say now that they’re actually talking.

“Well,” Mr Gallagher says and frowns down at the ticket in his hand. “I was.”

Yevgeny takes another step forward, trying to read the tiny print on the piece of paper. It’s upside down. “Which one?”

Mr Gallagher turns the ticket around and holds it up so Yevgeny can see it better.

“Beautiful Boy,” he says.

Yevgeny turns to his dad, but he hasn’t heard of it either by the looks of his helpless shrug. “What’s it about?”

“Don’t know,” Mr Gallagher says and looks down at his ticket again with a wince, scratching at the back of his neck. “Addiction, I think. And how it fucks up families–, sorry. Fuck, sorry.”

It’s weird to hear Mr Gallagher curse, but hearing him apologizing for it is just funny. Especially when he looks at Yevgeny’s dad like he expects him to get upset with him about it.

“Sounds fucking miserable,” is what his dad has to say about that, raising his eyebrows at Mr Gallagher. “That what constitutes a date movie these days?”

Mr Gallagher huffs out a laugh and pulls a hand over his eyes. He looks tired suddenly, but his oddly thankful smile is genuine when he looks at them again.

“Guess I should head home, huh?”

Yevgeny looks over at his dad who rubs at the corner of his mouth in thought, before gesturing vaguely at Mr Gallagher.

“Or,” he says, “you say fuck that guy and use that ticket to come see Tom Hardy rip some guys’ heads off for two hours, with us.”

Yevgeny beams at the suggestion, nodding enthusiastically when Mr Gallagher throws him an uncertain glance.

“Okay, yeah,” he says. “Why not?”

It fills Yevgeny with unexpected amounts of glee to watch his straight-laced English teacher get his ticket ripped for one movie, only to then follow him and his dad to a different screen and take a seat with them towards the back of the half-empty rows as the commercials start.

“Mr Gallagher?” Yevgeny asks, leaning over his dad to make sure Mr Gallagher can hear his hushed voice over the loud sound system.

“You can call me Ian,” Mr Gallagher half-whispers back, “we’re not in the classroom.”

Yevgeny isn’t so sure that’s going to work out for him, but he appreciates the sentiment. Maybe it means that he can ask some more personal questions and actually get back some real answers.

“Were you on a date?” he asks, just because his dad had brought it up earlier and Mr Gallagher hadn’t done the no-homo dance that most straight guys probably would have done in his place. “I mean, with that guy?”

His dad sighs, stretching his neck to try and watch the commercials over Yevgeny’s head.

“Yeah,” Mr Gallagher says.

Yevgeny frowns, and decides to try and push his luck. “Are you gonna see him again?”

Huffing uncomfortably, Mr Gallagher shakes his head. “No.”

“Good,” Yevgeny decides, ducking out of the way of his dad’s hand trying to push him back into his own chair by the face. “He seemed like a real asshat. You can do better.”

“You girls gonna chit-chat the whole movie?” his dad asks indignantly, gesturing at the trailer for First Man playing on the screen as Yevgeny sits back in his chair. “Thank you, fuck.”

“Your respect for the medium is admirable,” Yevgeny can still hear Mr Gallagher’s low voice, “you’re a trailer man, I get it.”

“I’m a shut-the-fuck-up-during-my-movie man,” his dad insists, “and what you do during the trailers sets precedence, letting me know if I oughta banish you to the first row before the movie starts.”

“And?”

“Guess you’re alright, Peter Pan, if not completely off the hook just yet.”

The lights dim and the screen goes dark, and Yevgeny slaps at his dad’s shoulder to get him to shut up. 112 minutes later, they amble out of the dark screening room after the other handful of people insisting to stay through the whole of the credits.

“That was awesome,” Yevgeny decides as they pass the bored ushers, “I loved it.”

“Thought it was supposed to be like, an R-rated movie,” his dad complains, an unlit cigarette already hanging off his lips as he waves his lighter around. Yevgeny wonders if he even notices the security guard keeping a critical eye on them as they leave the building. “I was expecting some real gory shit and didn’t get half of it.”

“PG-13,” Mr Gallagher says, pushing one of the glass doors open and holding it in place to let Yevgeny and his dad through. “Wasn’t all bad, though?”

“Suppose it cuts down on the boobs,” his dad agrees, grinning around his cigarette as he lights it up and Yevgeny makes a pained noise. “You win some, you lose some.”

Hugging his coat tighter around himself against the cold, Yevgeny starts leading them across the parking lot.

“Guess I should–,” Mr Gallagher says, taking a couple of reluctant steps toward the other end of the lot. “I’m parked over there.”

“Oh,” Yevgeny frowns, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the IHOP across the street. “You don’t wanna grab something to eat with us?”

“Probably shouldn’t,” Mr Gallagher seems to hesitate, looking from Yevgeny to his dad, to the watch on his wrist. “Kinda late for pancakes, isn’t it?”

“Never too late for pancakes,” his dad says. “Might even go as far as sayin’ they’re fucking essential at this point.”

“Post-movie pancakes,” Yevgeny nods, grinning when his dad points at him with his cigarette, “it’s kind of our tradition.”

“Guess it made more sense when we were catching matiné shows,” his dad says with a shrug. “But whatever, they’re still open, and we don’t fuck with tradition.”

Mr Gallagher smiles and puts his hands in the deep pockets of his parka as he looks around the parking lot, clearly still considering the offer. He seems suddenly very different from the person Yevgeny knows as his teacher.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Don’t be an ass,” Yevgeny whips his head to the side to stare at his dad, who waves off his concern as he blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth and nods decisively at Mr Gallagher. “It’s not a fucking moral dilemma, man, it’s just pancakes.”

“ _Dad!_ ” Yevgeny can’t help the slightly appalled plea for his dad to _stop insulting his teacher_. But Mr Gallagher’s face practically splits into a wide grin before he nods.

“Alright,” he says, and gestures for Yevgeny to lead the way. “Let’s do it.”

The IHOP is almost empty, bar the middle-aged lady reading over a cup of tea at one of the center tables. It’s been over four years since Yevgeny was here last, and the place looks more or less the same as he remembers. But the approaching closing time and the dark parking lot outside gives it a whole other vibe than how it used to feel – him and his dad getting lunch after a midday screening of The Lego Movie, or How to Train Your Dragon 2 – and anyway, it’s not just the two of them this time.

“Over there okay?” he asks, pointing over at the booths as he looks back at Mr Gallagher stepping in behind him. His dad has fallen a couple of steps behind, holding the door open while he’s taking one last drag off his cigarette before throwing it away and following.

“Yeah, sure,” Mr Gallagher says, shrugging off his jacket and stuffing it in next to him on the wide seat as he sits down.

Yevgeny takes a seat on the other side of the table, his dad motioning at him to make room before budging in next to him. They go full hog as usual with their orders – chocolate chip and maple syrup pancakes with one coffee and one cherry milkshake, please – while Mr Gallagher orders tea and a sandwich for himself.

“I’m not paying for your shit,” Yevgeny half expects his dad to tease the poor guy to death over it, but he sounds more insulted than anything. “You don’t gotta play coy with us.”

“It’s not that,” Mr Gallagher says, smiling at the waitress as he hands back their collected menus. “Can’t do too much sugar this late.”

“Holy fuck,” his dad groans, “you’re one of those people?”

Mr Gallagher chuckles and holds up his hands in defense.

“Hey, hittin’ thirty is a game-changer,” he says and nods in Yevgeny’s direction. “Enjoy it while it lasts, young one, before you know it you’ll be off sugar and dead on your feet by eleven if you try staying up past your bedtime.”

“I don’t know,” Yevgeny says, throwing a skeptical glance at his dad. He’s got the distinct feeling that he’s being reassured, something he’s been brought up to always treat with a certain amount of suspicion.

“Bullshit,” his dad says, but the defensive edge is gone from his voice. “Gonna have to shoot me before I quit sugar.”

“To each their own,” Mr Gallagher allows. “Can’t all be blessed with your good genes, though.”

“That’s gotta be a first,” Yevgeny says and grins at his dad. Yevgeny usually gets complimented on his achievements with a variably unspoken ‘ _despite_ your genes’ tacked to it, but his dad has probably never even gotten that much.

“Fuck genes,” he says, but he looks kinda pleased about it. “Gonna lose an arm to diabetes and die at fifty from a heart full of Snickers, like God intended.”

“Seriously, dad?” Yevgeny sighs, a little embarrassed but mostly disturbed.

“What? What did I say?”

“You can’t just–,” Yevgeny splutters, gesturing vaguely at the whole table as he can’t get himself to suggest that his dad maybe doesn’t _have_ to make amputation jokes in their present company. He leaves it unsaid and elects to focus on the more obviously unnecessary part of his dad’s argument. “Please don’t joke about you dying, it’s not funny.”

“Please,” his dad huffs, but smiles fondly at him as he’s reaching out to ruffle a hand through his hair. “Another twenty years of this and you’ll be cutting my salt with sugar, tryna speed up the process.”

Rolling his eyes and batting his hand away, Yevgeny decides to not dignify that with a response.

“We actually try to eat kinda healthy at home,” he tries to reassure Mr Gallagher, even though he seems more amused than disturbed by their playful argument. “Dad’s a really good cook.”

“Don’t know about all that,” his dad says with a shrug, resting his arm over the back of their seat. “But I worked the kitchen a lot in pen and got pretty sick of cooking and eating the same shit over and over. Made me wanna shake things up some once I got out.”

Yevgeny is a little surprised when he mentions prison so openly, it’s not something he usually brings up around people who aren’t immediate members of the family. Mr Gallagher must already know, though, because he doesn’t even raise an eyebrow at the reveal.

“Makes sense–, thank you,” he says and smiles politely at the waitress when she sets down his tea and sandwich on the table in front of him. “Puts things in perspective, huh?”

Yevgeny accepts his heaping plate of chocolate chip pancakes as it’s passed over to him.

“Pretty sure I was doin’ okay before,” his dad says, nodding at the waitress as she sets down his coffee and leaves them to it. “But sure, guess I got perspective coming outta the wazoo now.”

“There are worse things you could have coming out of your wazoo,” Yevgeny points out, grimacing when his dad snorts and he hears how it sounds as he says it. He’s not even entirely sure what a ‘wazoo’ is, although he could probably guess.

“Positive spin,” Mr Gallagher says and grins as he takes a bite out of his sandwich, “I like it.”

“Disgusting,” his dad counters, carving into his stack of pancakes with a pleased smile.

Yevgeny sips on his cherry shake and tries to think of something he can ask his teacher, if only to gently veer his dad away from a conversation that usually escalates into a hand-waving argument on the merits of positivity versus realism.

“You go to the movies a lot, Mr–, um, Ian?” he chokes out the first thing that comes to mind, trying his best not to crawl down on the floor and hide under the table when he stumbles on Mr Gallagher’s name and he hears how stupid the question sounds out loud.

But Mr Gallagher either doesn’t notice or, more likely, has years of practice of not reacting to his students embarrassing themselves in front of him. He chews down his food and nods.

“Happens,” he says. “Though probably less now that I’m supposedly a somewhat respectable adult and I gotta pay for it with my own hard-earned cash.”

“Yeah, sure,” Yevgeny agrees, “I fully intend to let dad keep paying for my tickets well into my thirties.”

His dad huffs, but doesn’t deny that it’s a possibility.

“Smart,” Mr Gallagher says, before grimacing, “and not exactly what I meant.”

“Tough guy here tryna tell you he used to sneak in, kid,” his dad says, pointing his fork at Mr Gallagher when he tries looking innocent, shaking his head. “Yeah, that’s right, this is the kinda hardened criminals we got teaching the youth of America. Gate-crashin’ South Side trash.”

“You grew up here?” Yevgeny asks, too excited by the possibility of having something this big in common with his teacher to chide his dad for being rude, _again._

“Yeah,” Mr Gallagher says with a nod, “just around the corner from your house, actually.”

“What?” Yevgeny gawks, looking between his dad and Mr Gallagher. “You knew each other growing up?”

“Nah,” Mr Gallagher says with a teasing smirk. “Your dad was way too cool to hang out with me.”

Yevgeny looks accusingly at his dad when he makes a noise of protest into his coffee.

“The fuck?” he complains, setting the cup down. “Yeah, sure, if by ‘too cool’ you mean I was too busy being an idiot and getting mixed up in dangerous shit to hang out with _anyone_. Least of all Dudley fuckin’ Do-Right here.”

“Hey,” Mr Gallagher laughs and gestures imploringly at Yevgeny. “I was cool, I got stories.”

Yevgeny actually believes him, but thinks it’s a lot funnier to pretend he doesn’t; screwing his face up in a doubtful grimace.

“Whatever,” his dad says with a dismissive wave, “you know you were a preppy bitch next to my fucked up ass.”

“You weren’t that bad,” Mr Gallagher says, turning to Yevgeny, “he really wasn’t that bad.”

Yevgeny looks at his dad who shakes his head, pressing his lips together over a smile. “Don’t listen to him, I really was that bad.”

“ _I_ liked you,” Mr Gallagher insists with a shrug. “Always thought we could’ve been friends if you–, you know, did the whole friends thing.”

Yevgeny continues to eat his pancakes in silence, deciding to just sit back and enjoy the show.

“Me?” his dad splutters, his fork clattering when he drops it down on his empty plate. “Did I ever fucking see you around school with a single person that wasn’t your toffee-nosed brainiac brother? No.”

“Hey, I had friends,” Mr Gallagher tries to interject, but then looks like he might not have the evidence with which to back it up. “And Lip isn’t my only sibling.”

The cherry shake slurps as Yevgeny sucks the bottom on his glass clean, and his dad points triumphantly at Mr Gallagher.

“Q.E. fuckin’ D.,” he says, smirking when Mr Gallagher quirks an eyebrow at the phrase.

“Everything good here?” The waitress has returned to their table, looking between Yevgeny and his dad before smiling at Mr Gallagher when he nods.

“Yeah,” he tells her, “very good, thanks.”

“We’re closing up in a few,” she says, “just letting you know.”

“We’re about done, right?” Mr Gallagher looks at Yevgeny, who scoops up the last piece of pancake from his plate and nods as he chews. “If we could have the check?”

“Sure, hon,” the waitress says, and sets down their bill between them on the table before she leaves.

Yevgeny scrapes his plate clean while Mr Gallagher and his dad wordlessly settle the check. He isn’t entirely sure why it’s such a big deal to his dad that Mr Gallagher pays for himself, but as long as they both agree on it, guess it’s fine.

“Thank you for tonight,” Mr Gallagher says, adjusting his collar as they step out into the cold night. He gives Yevgeny a sideways glance and smiles wryly. “Hope it wasn’t weird having your teacher cuttin’ in on family time.”

“That’s okay,” Yevgeny shrugs. “Sorry your date got ruined.”

The doors clatter behind them as his dad joins them, the spark of his lighter accompanying their footsteps as they start walking across the parking lot.

“I’m not,” Mr Gallagher decides, and Yevgeny thinks he actually does look a whole lot happier than he did a few hours ago.

“Nice change from grading papers at The Alibi, huh?” his dad mutters behind them.

“Never on a Saturday,” Mr Gallagher says, throwing a quick grin over his shoulder.

“That so?”

“Karaoke night,” he explains, and smiles when Yevgeny perks up and his dad makes a gagging noise. “I stick to Wednesdays and Fridays, mostly. Just to be safe.”

Yevgeny is already plotting how to coax his parents into taking him out for a tune next weekend, and his dad huffs.

“Good thinking.”

Peeling off, Mr Gallagher turns on his heel and takes a couple of steps backwards.

“Well,” he says, and seems to hesitate for a second before he nods. “‘Night. See you Monday, Yevgeny.”

Yevgeny grins, waving his teacher goodbye as he lets himself be pulled in the other direction by his dad’s hand on his shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew Mr Gallagher?” he asks while his dad unlocks the car and they move apart.

“Didn’t come up,” his dad says, swinging his door open and leaning on it to peer over at Yevgeny on the other side. But he doesn’t elaborate, instead he grips his loosely hanging cigarette between two fingers and sucks it down until the embers glare in the dark.

Frowning, Yevgeny opens his door and gets in, buckling his belt as his dad sits down next to him. The cold air wafting in with him stinks of tobacco and it’s slightly disturbing how much it smells like home. But mostly it’s just nice. Which is probably also objectively kinda disturbing.

“You’ve been talking about Mr Gallagher for years,” his dad says, gripping the steering wheel with one hand as he shifts in his seat so he can turn and face Yevgeny. “But it didn’t really click that it was the same guy until I met him again a couple of weeks ago.”

Yevgeny nods, turning to see his dad watching him almost nervously.

”Is it weird?” he asks.

Yevgeny thinks about it. Not because he doesn’t have an answer, but because it feels like the kind of question that deserves a good think. Just by the nature of his personality, ‘weird’ is pretty standard when it comes to Yevgeny’s dad attempting to get along with any of his teachers, but it’s not a word that comes to mind when he thinks about tonight’s chance encounter. Natural, is more like it.

“No,” he says and looks at his dad again. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“Nah,” his dad says with a pleased smile, raising his eyebrows as he ignites the engine and turns out of their parking space. “I’m cool if you’re cool, kid.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes it's past midnight, sorry! And holy moly, you guys have been so lovely in the comments these past few days (and the whole month, but I've been falling behind on answering this weekend... I will write all of you back tomorrow after work!) ❤
> 
> [Advent Playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=_UWACxjSRpejtGdF51yJNg)


	17. I've got my love to keep me warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lil warning:  
> Mentions of blood in first part (2014)

.

Part Seventeen

**“I’ve got my love to keep me warm”**

_Featuring_ Mickey Milkovich _as_ Mickey  


_Starring_

Mandy Milkovich as Mandy  
Veronica FIsher as Vee  


_With_

Terry Milkovich’s looming presence as A Recently Exed Parrot; Pining for the Fjords  


_And_

Ian Gallagher as Ian  


~*¨*~

_2014_  


The street is eerily quiet, even considering the late hour. Early morning, now. It feels like his neighborhood has been busy and loud his whole life, every second, one thing overlapping another, but right this minute it’s quiet.

Mickey takes out his cigarettes and lights one up, tossing the empty pack out towards the pile of trash hiding what’s supposed to be a lawn. Sucking his lungs full of smoke, he takes the cigarette from his lips and breathes out. He can see his hands shaking through his exhale.

He ran them under the tap earlier, wiping them off on an already dirty towel, but they still seem stained red. Darkening into a blotchy pattern of coppery brown. Clasping his hands together, he rubs at the blood drying on the base of his thumb until it flakes off and scatters over the concrete steps.

Sirens sound in the distance.

“There’s some money,” he says, and his voice comes out calmer than he expected. “Loose floorboard in my room. Use it.”

He gets no reply, but he wasn’t really looking for one.

“Tell Yev,” he says, and almost chokes on it. He puts the cigarette back to his lips. “I don’t know.”

For a second, he wants to be argued with again, to be challenged, to be refused. Given the chance to change his mind, or the chance to convince himself once more that this is the only way this can be done.

The only way.

“Tell Yev,” he says again and sighs, closing his eyes, “tell him I’ll see him soon, alright?”

Mandy moves out of the open doorway behind him, and sits down next to him. She hugs her arms tightly across her chest and leans her head on his shoulder.

Her hair tickles his neck and her cheek is wet with tears.

The sirens are getting closer.  


_2018_  


Mickey’s got two beers ready when he walks through The Alibi to find Ian sitting alone in the same booth he had a couple of weeks back, sheets of scribbly A4 strewn out over the table.

“Incoming,” he says as he sits down, holding up the beers while Ian quickly collects his papers into a semi-neat pile.

“Hey,” he says and accepts his beer with a crooked smile. Mickey doesn’t miss the way he checks the label before chinking the bottle to Mickey’s and taking a drink from his non-alcoholic abomination of a lager.

Mickey had considered asking Kev to recommend him one, but then thought better of it and instead told the bartender to get him whatever Ian usually gets for himself. Kev had given him an amused look at the request, but mercifully kept his mouth shut.

“So, here we are, again,” Mickey says, like he didn’t waste an hour nursing a beer at this very table on Wednesday night attempting to stage another chance encounter. “What are the odds, huh?”

“It’s a mystery,” Ian agrees, hiding a pleased smile behind another swig off his bottle.

“Or it’s a Friday,” Mickey says and grins when Ian points at him with the neck of his beer.

“Or it’s that,” he says.

Glancing around the dimly lit room, Mickey settles back into his seat. There’s some indistinct music playing from the speakers hanging over the bar, barely registering with the still shapes of the regular drunks bent over their drinks. There’s a low murmur of scattered conversation, and the occasional clatter from the pool table as someone gets in a hit.

“Yev’s got this campaign going at home,” he says, looking back at Ian. “He wants family karaoke at The Alibi to be a thing, now.”

“Oh no,” Ian huffs, cringing in sympathy.

“Oh yeah,” Mickey nods, “I blame you.”

Ian rubs at the back of his neck. “That’s fair.”

“He’s pretty much given up on it being a weekly thing,” Mickey says and grins when Ian looks pained on his behalf. “I’m pushing for once a year.”

“Very generous,” Ian admits and takes a drink as Mickey shrugs.

“Can’t really deny the kid what he wants on his birthday, can I?” he says. “It’s like the trump-all of arguments.”

Ian is wincing into his beer, shaking his head as he swallows.

“Don’t say that word,” he says.

“What?” Mickey narrows his eyes, thinking back to what he just said. Either the guy’s got a real complicated relationship with birthdays, or… “Jesus, what–, Trump?”

“Please,” Ian shudders, “you’re giving me an ulcer just sayin’ it.”

“Once more and maybe he’ll manifest,” Mickey tries to joke. “Haven’t curb stomped a guy in a while, but I imagine it’s kinda like riding a bike?”

Ian gets something mockingly wistful in his eyes as he pretends to think it over, before shaking his head. It suddenly occurs to Mickey that he basically just joked about committing a very gruesome and specific murder, and Ian didn’t react like he thought he meant it. Most people who think they know anything about Mickey’s past usually have no qualms about assuming the worst of him.

“Buzzkill,” he says, doing his best to tamper down the fucking orchestral swell of feelings bubbling through him as Ian smiles forlornly and shrugs. The gesture reminds Mickey of something he’s wanted to ask for a while, but felt weird bringing up when his kid was around. “Ey, that time on the street–”

Ian groans and shuts his eyes with an uncomfortable grimace.

“Yeah,” Mickey snorts, raising his eyebrows when Ian looks at him again, “wanna expand on that?”

“Sorry,” Ian says, unnecessarily. “I was being fucking weird, I could feel it. It was–”

He hesitates, and Mickey is just about to tell him to forget it when he’s pressing his lips together with a determined nod.

“I was having a low day.”

Not wanting to assume anything, Mickey takes Ian’s open answer as permission to keep asking. “Low, like–?”

“I um–, I have bipolar disorder,” Ian says, letting out a quick sigh. “It’s like–”

“I know what it is,” Mickey tries to spare him the pain of describing it, shrugging when Ian quirks a curious eyebrow. “Guy bunking next door had it. Can get pretty shitty, huh?”

Ian huffs. Calling it ‘pretty shitty’ is a massive understatement, and Mickey knows it. Prison isn’t kind to anyone, but Mickey doesn’t have to imagine how bad it is for some – he’s seen it. Still, Ian probably doesn’t need to hear any of that from some dude who’s only lived next doors to it, so Mickey keeps his mouth shut and waits for Ian to go on, if he wants to.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning his elbows on the table as he takes another drink of his beer. He doesn’t quite look Mickey in the eyes when he continues. “Was stationed in Iraq when I had my first real manic episode… stole a van and drove it into a minefield, convinced that like–, the CIA or someone had told me how to get through it, in a dream.”

It’s a lot, and Mickey isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say. So he says; “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees and looks at him again with a quick, crooked smile, before casting his eyes down on the bottle in his hands.

“Luckily,” he says, picking absently at the label, “no one got injured.”

Mickey frowns, staring at Ian’s pale eyelashes and hunched frame. He doesn’t know anything about it, but he knows that’s not true.

“You did.”

Ian tips his bottle at him before he takes a drink. “True.”

Letting the silence linger for a moment, Mickey eventually picks up his eyebrows and shoots Ian an unimpressed look.

“And?” he says, smirking when Ian looks confused. “That’s it, is it?”

Furrowing his brow, Ian seems caught between remaining confused and getting offended.

“What?”

“See, Chano–,” Mickey explains, “that would be the guy I was with, we’re tight, you know? Lived together for almost three years.”

Ian ducks his head, but can’t quite hide the displeased look on his face. It absolutely _fills_ Mickey with glee to see it. Chano was right, and Mickey fucking loves it.

“He had an interesting theory about the whole thing,” he continues, nodding when Ian looks at him again. “Said you were acting extra dodgy for a reason.”

Letting out a quick sigh, Ian’s lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile as he’s crossing his arms.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mickey nods, “and he told me to make sure you knew that he’s got a lady, ‘cause he somehow got it in his head that you maybe–, how did he say it?”

“Was kinda jealous?” Ian suggests, smiling as he hugs his folded arms tighter across his chest. His lean muscles stretch under his t-shirt and Mickey would be a dirty liar if he claimed not to enjoy the sight of it.

“Wanted to bite his head off,” he says, tilting his head to the side when Ian laughs. “But yeah, sure. That too.”

His laugh turning into a self-deprecating grimace, Ian rubs one of his big hands over his neck again.

“Yeah, well,” he says with a shrug. ”He’s not wrong. Sorry.”

But he doesn’t look sorry; a wide smile pulling at his lips as he seems unable to resist mimicking the dopey look taking over Mickey’s whole face.

Mickey isn’t an idiot, he knows nothing can happen between him and Ian, on account of the guy also being _Mr Gallagher_ , and because Mickey is who he is. Still, it’s unexpectedly nice to realize that he isn’t alone in thinking they’ve got a connection.

“I’m not,” he says, relishing the look of recognition in Ian’s eyes as his smile softens into something bordering on melancholic.

Taking a drink, Mickey sits back and enjoys the moment, not breaking contact with Ian’s focused eyes. Appearing almost grey in the bar’s dim lighting, Mickey figures they’re the kind of shit better people than him write songs about. The way Ian looks at him, it makes him feel seen.

“Ey,” he says, diverting the moment before he goes and does something stupid, “got real into that pirate show of yours.”

“Yeah?” Ian looks genuinely excited, if a little surprised. “Where are you now?”

“Just got started on season three,” Mickey says and grins at Ian’s pursed lips, clearly holding himself back from saying too much and accidentally spoiling what’s to come.

“How about that second, though?” he says, widening his eyes. “Did I or did I not tell you you were gonna love it?”

Mickey nods magnanimously. “You did.”

“And was I right?” Ian asks, clearly looking to milk it.

“You were right,” Mickey admits, shaking his head at Ian’s pleased smirk. “Even started the first season again after Yev nagged me for two weeks to let him watch.”

Cringing, Ian takes a drink before he asks; “And how did that go down?”

“Didn’t,” Mickey admits, “little shit ditched after ten minutes, lookin’ kinda pale around the edges.”

Ian chuckles. “At least he knows his limits.”

“Sure does,” Mickey says, smiling absently at the thought of his son. “Also knows how to get exactly what he wants outta his old man, he’s got me recappin’ episodes as soon as I manage to steal an hour to myself to catch up. It’s become a whole production.”

“He knows what he likes,” Ian nods. “His obsession with Treasure Island’s been bleeding into all his other subjects. Don’t think I’ve seen him apply himself as wholeheartedly to anything before as he’s done this play.”

“He knows what he likes,” Mickey repeats with a sigh, but can’t quite hide the proud smirk pulling at his lips. “And he’s got no issue lettin’ everybody else know, too.”

At thirteen, Mickey was already pushing drugs for his dad at school, following in the footsteps of his brothers and cousins. He kept his shoplifted sketchbooks hidden under his mattress, only taking them out to draw when he knew the rest of the house was out cold.

Yevgeny only started getting into the whole theater thing after Mickey got arrested, smiling from ear to ear as he sat on the other side of the bulletproof glass, clutching the clunky receiver to his face and excitedly detailing his first play practice.

“I got like, a shoebox under my bed,” Mickey says, scratching at his cheek, wondering if he really should be telling Ian this. He’s never really told anyone before, not even Yevgeny. “It’s got letters and stuff he sent me when I was locked up, bunch of playbills and whatever. Kinda what kept me goin’, in there, knowing one day I’d get to be one of those gross parents, right? Sitting in the audience all nervous and shit, tellin’ anyone who’ll listen my son’s playing lead.”

Swigging back his beer to empty his bottle, Mickey thinks he’s can see exactly what Chano was on about. It’s like he can’t shut up about his pathetic life whenever Ian’s around, but somehow the guy doesn’t seem turned off by any of it. He’s still looking at Mickey like he’s something worth watching.

“Did I say bed?” Mickey asks drily, hoping some stark reality can dim the hearts out of Ian’s eyes. “‘Cause I’m pretty sure I meant to say ‘ex-wife’s lumpy-ass couch’…”

But Ian only offers him a sympathetic smile, those wonderful eyes still shining strong. “Still house hunting, huh?”

“More like begging at this point,” Mickey admits with a grimace.

“Well, if you’re desperate,” Ian says, taking out his phone and swiping across the screen to unlock it. “I could get you in touch with my landlord, she’s got a couple of buildings in Englewood and around Auburn, I think. They’re all kinda shitty, but the turnover’s gonna work in your favor.”

Blinking in surprise, Mickey feels the familiar surge of hope he gets with every new lead. It’s usually a precursor to massive disappointment, but maybe this time will be different.

“Fuck, yeah,” he says, “thank you.”

“No problem,” Ian says, looking up from his phone to give him a quick grin. “What’s your number?”

Rattling off his digits, it isn’t until he’s watching Ian type in his contact details with a pleased smile that he realizes he just gave the guy his number. Ignoring the happy churn in his guts, he takes out his own phone just in time to see it light up with a new message.

“Thanks,” he says again, saving both Ian’s and his landlord’s numbers into his contacts.

“Ian, baby,” Vee calls from the bar, breaking through their bubble. “You wanna help me with these boxes?”

“Comin’,” Ian tells her, before turning back to Mickey. “Sorry, kinda promised before you showed up.”

“Yeah, no, ‘course,” Mickey says, waving at Ian to get going. “Do what you gotta do.”

Ian looks at him for another beat, then he nods and gets up.

“Right back,” he says, before walking away and disappearing through the back door with Vee.

Spinning his empty bottle in his hands, Mickey absently tries to read the upside-down essay topping the pile of homework sidelined on the table. Suddenly he feels weird, sitting there alone with Ian’s unfinished work. Telling Mickey which days of the week he usually hangs out at The Alibi had obviously been some kind of invitation, but showing up unannounced and sticking around to take up Ian’s whole night would probably be overstepping it, especially seeing as Ian also came here to actually work.

Mickey just came here hoping to bump into Ian.

He gets out of the booth, grabbing his coat before he walks towards the door.

“You’re leaving?” Ian asks, carrying a box of Heineken from the back rooms when Mickey turns around at the sound of his voice.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Gotta get home.”

“Sure, okay,” Ian sets down the box on the counter and rests his hands on either side of it, clearly in no hurry to go back out for another. “Nice seeing you.”

Mickey chews on his lip for a second, assessing Ian’s open expression, before giving him a quick nod.

“You wanna, maybe,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “like, accidentally bump into me again next week?”

Ian smiles at him, and the sight of it swoops through his whole body. “Same time, same place?”

Slowly backing toward the door, Mickey shrugs. “Guess we’re gonna have to wait and see, huh?”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LEAST THEM AND FATE ARE ON THE SAME PAGE NOW, RIGHT? More or less.


	18. Look at that

.

Part Eighteen

**“Look at that”**

_Featuring_ Ian Gallagher _as_ An Unfortunate Son of Monica Gallagher  
  


_Starring_

Mickey Milkovich as A Lighthouse in the Fog  
  


_With_

Yevgeny Milkovich and friends as Mainly Forgotten Background Noise  
  


~*¨*~

“Broke my head in two pieces on the hard deck in a sea fight, sir,” Sam recites her lines in that bold, exuberant way of hers. “A very good friend took his favorite stewpot lid. Heated it red hot on his stove top and nailed it to my skull for a brand new cast iron forehead.”

Setting down his brush in his solo cup of blue paint, Ian looks up at the half-covered backdrop slowly turning into an empty horizon as his students run through their lines behind him, oh-ing over Sam’s performance.

“See?” she yells triumphantly. “You can knock on it if ye like, it won’t ever break ever–, dush dush dush!”

“The poor woman’s brain needs some good sea air, sir,” Yevgeny says, in his much improved voice of Long John Silver.

Ian moves over to the craft table to grab the large squeeze bottle of azure blue paint, shaking it before refilling his cup.

“Simple human kindness,” Nick decides behind him, “hired!”

Sighing, Ian looks up at his work again. It feels like he’s been staring at the same shade of blue for hours, and he’s still got almost half of it left to do. Wiping his hand on his already stained jeans, he pulls out his phone and checks the time.

Six thirty, and no new messages. Guess he’s only got himself to blame for that one.

He’s been deliberately bumping into Mickey at The Alibi for a couple of weeks now, hanging out and getting along like a house on fire, but very carefully never stepping over the line into anything other than casual friendship. Until Ian freaked out about it last Friday and messaged Mickey that he couldn’t make their scheduled serendipitous rendez-vous. And then did the same today, albeit with a better excuse than his previous ‘sorry, can’t make it’.

It was still ‘sorry, can’t make it’, but at least it was true this time.

Truth is he isn’t sure he’s strong enough to continue seeing Mickey this way, every instance solidifying his feelings and weighing him down when he remembers that he can’t do shit about it. It hurts too much, and it makes him feel like an asshole, but he thinks it’s probably going to do them both good if he takes a step back.

It’s selfish and cowardly, but the constant background track of guilt and longing _has_ to be better than the acute pain of sitting across from him and knowing they can’t happen. Because they _can’t happen_.

His arm feels heavy as he sets his brush to the board, continuing his laborious horizontal strokes and pushing through the urge to find a dark, silent room and lie down. Closing his eyes and forgetting his duties, feelings, and the rest of the world.

“You missed a spot.”

Taking a sharp breath, Ian turns around to see Mickey standing there as though conjured by his thoughts. He’s got his arms crossed as he is scowling up at the backdrop, appearing clearly and rightfully pissed off. But then he looks right at Ian and his eyes are full of unspoken concern.

Ian had got it in his head that seeing Mickey would be difficult, and complicated, and make everything worse. He was wrong. He feels the tension draining out of his neck at the mere sound of his voice, and some of the weight lifting off his mind at the sight of him. Angry, concerned, out of his reach, it doesn’t matter. Ian just wants him around.

“Shit, Mickey,” he breathes out, and just like that, he feels almost human again. “Missed you.”

Mickey looks a little taken aback at the admission, but then both concern and surprise is covered up with a pleased smirk.

“Calm down, Private Romeo,” he says, “only been like a week.”

“Week and a half,” Ian says, but doesn’t labour the point. Instead he holds out his cup of paint. “Thank god you’re here, not sure how it’s possible to fuck up painting a big blue rectangle, but I think I just did.”

Mickey takes the cup and critically inspects the backdrop once more.

“Cause it’s not a fucking blue rectangle, is it?” he says, walking over to the paint station and setting down the cup. “It’s the ocean, it’s got life and movement and shit in it.”

“Fish?” Ian suggests with a shrug, grinning when Mickey throws an unimpressed look over his shoulder.

“Variation,” he says, rolling up his sleeves over his elbows before he grabs the white paint and squirts some into his cup. “Depth.”

Ian watches Mickey work in silence, his strong neck bent and shoulders moving under his dress shirt as he mutters to himself and fills up two cups with a number of different blues and greens, cut with white. Stirring a brush through one of the cups, he turns around and hands it over to Ian.

“Don’t mix that shit too much,” he says, taking the other cup for himself. “Don’t recommend this as a solid technique, but it’s gonna look a fuck-ton better than what you’ve got goin’ there.”

Dragging the new mix of paint across the board, it looks kind of crazy at first. But after painting a couple of square feet, Ian takes a few steps back and squints, and the effect is definitely a lot more convincing than his earlier monotone approach.

“Huh,” he says and looks over at Mickey, painting the other end of the backdrop in broad, confident strokes.

“Talked to your landlord again this morning,” he says, as they slowly paint their way toward each other.

“Yeah?” Ian asks, taking in Mickey’s focused profile. “Any good?”

“Maybe,” Mickey nods, dunking his brush into the paint and taking another step toward Ian’s side. “Actually seein’ her next week about a place, some sucker flaked on her last minute apparently. I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but…”

“Mickey Milkovich,” Ian says and stops painting to smile at Mickey when he looks his way. “Are we gonna be neighbors again?”

Mickey shoots him a quick grin before stretching up to paint a patch of board just above his head, hiding most of his face behind his arm.

“Nah,” he says. “This is gonna be in one of her average to shitty row houses in Woodlawn. You’re in that big building near Ogden Park, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ian says, a little surprised that Mickey would know that.

“Told your landlord I got the number from you,” Mickey explains, shrugging when he lowers his hand to dip the brush back into his paint. “She’s a real chatty lady.”

Ian thinks he probably should have something to say about that, but then Mickey takes another sidestep toward him and his thoughts turn into white noise.

Mickey is close enough now that if Ian reached out, he could touch him. Take him by the shoulder and turn him in until they’re face to face and the distance melts away. But he can’t, he absolutely shouldn’t.

He wants to, so bad his skin tingles.

Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, he decides to compromise with his urges and _do something_. Mickey notices him, and the quick flash of unmasked hope in his eyes is causing Ian’s heart to skip a beat in the second before he’s reaching out.

Mickey blinks in shock when Ian pokes the wet bristles of his brush into his cheek, twisting it slightly to leave a big blue dot on his lightly reddening skin.

“The fuck?” he exclaims and staggers back, getting paint all over his hand when he swats at Ian’s brush and then smears the dot across his cheek as he feels his face for the damage.

“Oops,” Ian says and grins when Mickey stares at him in outrage.

“You’re so dead, Gallagher,” he says, but he’s laughing before he’s even halfway through the sentence.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides*
> 
> YOU GUYS ARE THE VERY BEST. Today's song is "Se på fan", which I decided to translate into "look at that", even though it literally means "look at the devil". 
> 
> [Music](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=M6sFrDVrSfe7zVFbkxMukQ)


	19. There will never be another you

.

Part Nineteen

**“There will never be another you**  
**_Or_ **  
**Scene 9: Crew-Hiring”**

_Featuring  
_Yevgeny Milkovich  
_returning to the stage as_  
A More Mature and World-Weary Yevgeny  
_occasionally forgetting that he is also_  
Long John Silver  


_Starring_

Samantha Haile as Sam and Joan the Goat  
Nick being Kinda Alright as Nick, and A Minor Revelation in his role as Squire  
Tina Coleman as Tina and Captain Flint  
Livia Amorim as Livia and Sou Israel Hands  


_With_

Mickey Milkovich as Dad  


_And_

Ian Gallagher as Persistently Mr Gallagher  


~*¨*~

“And when I was up on deck…” Yevgeny says, sweeping his arm through the air in a wide arch. “With the stars above me.”

Pausing theatrically, he peers out at the empty seats in the auditorium.

“They called me Long John Silver.”

He stands up, awkwardly leaning his weight on the peg leg strapped to his knee. It feels like his whole left side has fallen asleep after sitting on his bent leg for a bit too long.

“Captain Flint!” he calls out, sticking out his elbow for Tina to scramble around him and place the half-finished parrot puppet on it.

“Pieces of eight!” she squawks, manipulating the puppet to make it look like it’s talking.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, bird!” Yevgeny agrees, before making an uncertain noise wholly out of character when he wobbles and has to reach out and grab on to Tina’s arm so he won’t fall over.

“Squawk,” Tina says, and helps him sit down on his crate again.

“I think that was a lot better, right?” Nick asks, looking around at the vague half-circle of pirating crew-members sitting on the stage, before turning to Yevgeny. “If only Long John can learn to stand sometime soon.”

“It’s me sea-legs, you confounded land crab!” Yevgeny lets Silver grouse in his stead, before wincing apologetically. “I’ll get there, I’ve still got three weeks to find my balance.”

“I feel like I kinda fucked up my line,” Sam mutters, looking up from her script. “Again from my introduction?”

The rest of the group nods, and Nick gives Yevgeny an uncertain look. Yevgeny wouldn’t go as far as call them friends, just yet, but he’s found that Nick isn’t the absolute worst person in the world now that they’ve finally got to talk it out and get on the same page.

While his first attempt had been an absolute disaster, it managed at least to put the excruciating awkwardness of round two in some well-needed perspective. Turns out Nick _does_ kind of like him (unacceptable!) but seemed genuinely sorry about the whole pigtail-pulling malarky (better!), and they ended up having a pretty good talk.

The best part is that Nick actually turned out to be a pretty decent actor once he stopped jerking around, trying to get Yevgeny’s attention. So while ‘friends’ might still be a long distance away, ‘mutual respect’ is definitely on the table.

“I’m fine,” Yevgeny assures him, before clearing his throat and leaning back into Silver’s voice. “Joan?”

Sam stows away her script and points at Yevgeny with a broad grin. “The Goat!”

“Joan the..?” Nick huffs in his pretty wonderfully foppish Squire voice.

“Broke my head in two pieces on the hard deck in a sea fight, sir,” Sam starts, gesturing wildly as she explains her character’s ludicrous backstory. “–dush, dush, dush!”

“The poor woman’s brain needs some good sea air, sir,” Yevgeny comments to Nick.

“Simple human kindness,” he decides, “hired!”

“Dush!” Sam exclaims, slapping her open palm against the side of her head.

Yevgeny grins encouragingly at her, but then the unusual sound of his dad’s gleeful laughter pulls his focus from her to the vast ocean being painted in the background.

His dad has a big blob of blue paint on his cheek, his eyes shining and his smile wide when he puts his whole hand to the still wet wall and waves it menacingly at Mr Gallagher.

_”Sou Israel Hands!”_

Yevgeny can’t help grinning at the scene when his dad gets Mr Gallagher into a headlock, laughing helplessly and trying to squirm away from the blue hand being smushed into his face.

_”A foreigner?”_

Mr Gallagher gets out of the grip, holding his hands up as he backs away. He’s smiling as wide as Yevgeny’s dad is, grabbing his long arms around him when he’s attacked again, attempting to wrestle him around and push him face-first into the sea.

“Yev!” Nick sharply calls him back to the foreground, staring at him expectantly when Yevgeny blinks and looks around at his crew-mates. “A foreigner?”

“But honest,” Yevgeny somehow manages to remember his line. He cranes his neck to look for his dad again, finding only a slightly stained Mr Gallagher returned to painting the sea, alone.

“Mi bendita madre me ha dado una medalla sagrada,” Livia says, elbowing Yevgeny in the side to get his attention, “para que ningún mortal me pueda matar.”

“Her blessed mother has given her a sacred medal so no mortal man can kill her,” Yevgeny translates, pushing the sight of his dad laughing and fooling around like a happy kid out of his mind. Glancing back at the calmly painting figure of Mr Gallagher, it almost feels like he might have imagined the whole thing.

“I had a mother, too!” Nick announces proudly. “Hired!”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or: the one where the credits are almost as long as the chapter -_-
> 
> See you again tomorrow, lovelies <3


	20. This time of year

.

Part Twenty

**“This time of year”**

_Featuring_ Mickey Milkovich _as_ Just A Man, Sick and Tired of This Waltz  
  


_Starring_

Phillip Gallagher as Lip  
Ponciano Rosiquez as Chano  
  


_And_

Ian Gallagher as Ian  
  


~*¨*~

Mickey’s phone rings as he’s bounding up the stairs to the L, his breath coming out in big white puffs in the cold air.

“Yeah?” he says, sandwiching the phone between his ear and shoulder as he looks around the nearly empty platform, digging around in his pockets for his smokes.

 _“So?”_ Chano asks. _“How did it go?”_

Lighting up, Mickey takes a slow drag off his cigarette before he answers.

“I got it,” he says, taking the cigarette from his lips when he grins at Chano’s exuberant reaction.

 _“Yes!”_ he whoops. _“I said you’d get it, didn’t I say you’d get it?”_

Mickey rolls his eyes and nods, not willing to go as far as admitting it out loud.

“Signed the contract and everything,” he says, shivering with exhilaration at the thought. “Got the place starting next month.”

 _“Holy shit,_ ” Chano laughs, _“Mickey, that’s like a week away.”_

“Saturday,” Mickey confirms, feeling like his face might burst he’s smiling so wide. “Guess who’s gonna help me move?”

 _“With fuckin’ bells on, bro,”_ Chano doesn’t even _try_ to slither out of it, he sounds almost as excited as Mickey’s feeling. _“Have you told Yevy yet?”_

“Yeah, I called him first thing,” Mickey says, placing the cigarette back to his lips and wandering further down the platform when a group of people come ambling up the stairs. “He’s already decorating his room in his head, talking color schemes and shit like we’re gonna repaint the thing.”

 _“It’s your first home you’ve got all to yourself,”_ Chano points out, sounding soft and happy on Mickey’s behalf. Mickey knows it is, but it’s like he still isn’t ready to believe it’s actually happening. _“I’ll get Lou and Jess to come help and we’ll paint the whole place if you want it.”_

The cold wind prickles at his cheeks and stings his eyes, and thinking about his small and unlikely group of friends and family warms Mickey to his very core.

“Thanks,” he says, wiping at the tip of his cold nose as the train rattles past and slows to halt in front of him. “Later.”

He hangs up and takes one last deep drag off his cigarette as he boards the train, flicking the half-burnt stick out the doors before they slide closed. Not immediately spotting an empty double seat, Mickey opts to stay by the doors as the train takes off again, staring past his blurred reflection and out over the city landscape rolling past.

He’s found a place to live, his own place. No communal showers, or strong-willed ex-wives, or bad memories. Just him, his kid every other week, and a new start at life. It’s surreal, but it’s finally happening.

The lights in Ogden Park blink through the gaps of buildings whooshing past outside, a tinny voice announcing the next stop as the train slows down.

He drags the pad of his thumb over the edge of his phone, scratching his nail over the small crack in one of the corners. The glass is cold against the palm of his hand. He called Yevgeny, he went to a local bar and had a celebratory drink, he’s talked to Chano. It’s becoming painfully clear that there’s only one thing left he’s been itching to do, ever since he stepped out of his new landlord’s office.

Ian. And in every fucking sense of the word ‘do’.

Mickey is through the doors before he’s even finished the thought, twisting around on the platform to watch the train leave as his fellow disembarking passengers file down the stairs.

“Shit,” he mutters.

It’s probably at least ten minutes until the next train is bound to arrive, and he hasn’t got a clue about where Ian lives – other than ‘big building near Ogden Park’ – or if he’s going to appreciate an unannounced visitor at this hour, DTF notwithstanding.

But he can’t _not_ try, not today. Today is the day his life finally pivots for the better, he can feel it. And he kinda wants Ian to be there for it, in any way he’s willing.

But preferably all the ways, and frequently naked.

He takes out his phone and types out a quick message.

9:21  
At Ashland/63rd, you home?

Shoving the phone down his pocket, he takes out another cigarette and lights it up, trying to stave off some of the cold wind sweeping in across the empty platform. If Ian doesn’t answer within the following eight minutes before the next train arrives, he’ll get on it and forget about the whole thing.

His phone dings.

Turns out Ian lives a ten minutes’ quick walk from the station. His door flies open when Mickey walks up to it and a sandy-haired man blocks his way, smirking knowingly as he looks him over.

“Mickey,” he says, moving out of the way to hold up the door with a sarcastic flourish of the hand.

“Gallagher,” Mickey acknowledges Ian’s older brother with a nod as he walks past, not looking to stick around to catch up on the decade-and-some since they last saw each other.

“You uh-, here to discuss your son’s grades?” Lip asks, his smirk falling into a face of inconceivable innocence when Mickey stops to shoot him an unimpressed look.

“Maybe,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Sure as fuck didn’t come here to see you, I know that.”

Lip shrugs and lets go of the door, stepping back.

“Don’t keep him up too late,” he calls out as he leaves, before the door swings closed behind him. “It’s a school night!”

“Asshole,” Mickey mutters, making his way through the short hallway and peering into the next room.

“What?” Ian says, looking up from his laptop and swiveling around on the high stool he’s sitting on by a cluttered kitchen island. He looks surprised when he sees Mickey, but it’s quickly followed by a genuine smile. “Hey.”

Mickey is usually good at this stuff – asking for what he wants and getting it most of the time, too – but now that he’s standing in Ian’s living room still in his coat, smoke and cold air clinging to his skin, he isn’t sure what to do except to smile back at the guy like a smitten ding-dong.

He definitely came here with the intention to get some, but really just seeing Ian feels like a win. He looks comfortable and really fucking hot in his white tank and worn grey sweats, his left pant-leg tied up in a knot. Ian’s surprised smile turns into a pleased smirk when he no doubt notices him looking, his eyes dipping as he gives Mickey a good perusing in turn.

“Hey,” Mickey says and bites his lip, before he raises his eyebrows and points his thumb over his shoulder. “So, Lip’s still an asshole, huh?”

Ian huffs out a laugh and looks down on the floor between them, still smiling. “Yeah.”

He is nothing short of fucking enchanting.

“I was in the neighborhood and thought–,” Mickey starts to explain, when his brain finally manages to catch up to his mouth. “Your leg’s gone.”

Yevgeny has definitely mentioned Ian’s injury from his army days on more than one occasion, but Mickey obviously must have failed to pay attention because he’s still mildly shocked at the sight of him without his prosthetic. Ian looks down at his tied up sweats, like he’s surprised to see his leg gone, too. But when he meets Mickey’s eyes again, his lips are pressed together into a displeased mockery of a smile.

“Right,” he says, “landmines kinda do that to people.”

This is going fucking _great_ , right off the bat. The last thing Mickey wants is for Ian to think he gives a shit about any of that, and here he is; pointing out the fucking painfully obvious like another thoughtless schmo.

“Sure, yeah,” he agrees, hoping Ian isn’t looking for sympathy or kindness from him, because he doesn’t think he’s very good at either of those. “I’ve heard that about them, too.”

Ian stares at him for a moment, before his serious face breaks out in a genuinely amused grin. More relieved than he’d like to admit, Mickey puts his hands in his coat pockets and looks around Ian’s home. It’s not big or particularly interesting, but it’s homely. Shelves of books line one wall, there’s a framed photo over the loveseat couch of a whole buss-load of people doing Christmas at The Alibi – most of them presumably Gallaghers – and a TV on an awkward angle in a corner, next to a closed door probably leading to a bedroom.

“Nice place,” he says honestly, looking back at Ian when he snorts.

“It’s alright,” he says. “It’s mine.”

“I get that,” Mickey nods, scratching at his cheek before pointing at Ian. ”I eh–, saw your landlord today. _Our_ landlord now, I guess.”

Ian’s whole face lights up, immediately understanding what he’s saying. “You serious?”

“Seems like it,” Mickey says, holding his hands out in a helpless shrug. “Still kinda hasn’t sunk in yet, but yeah. All thanks to you.”

Smiling wider, Ian shakes his head.

“This calls for celebration, right?” he says, grabbing the crutch propped up next to his stool and getting up to move around the kitchen island. “A drink?”

Mickey can’t get himself to answer, watching with interest as the muscles in Ian’s back flex when he leans on the crutch to open his fridge.

“Don’t really have anything home,” he says, closing the fridge again and moving over to rummage through a couple of cupboards. “Tea?”

“Ian,” Mickey says, suddenly acutely sick of this song and dance they’ve been waltzing around to for months, not talking about the thing building between them, aching for attention. “I didn’t come here for tea.”

Ian slowly shuts the cupboard door he’s holding open, but doesn’t turn around.

“So you wanna like, chit-chat some more,” Mickey asks, nervously licking his lips, ”or you gonna get on me?”

For a second, he still has hopes that Ian will tear across the room and bodily guide him to the closest soft surface, devouring him with his lips. The next, he’s staring at Ian’s bent neck as his excitement turns sour in the still silence.

Shifting his grip on the crutch, Ian slowly turns around. He meets Mickey’s eyes for a split second, opening his mouth to say something only to close his eyes and press his lips together, almost imperceptibly shaking his head as he sighs.

“Oh,” Mickey says, feeling incredibly stupid all of a sudden. “Okay.”

“Mickey–,” Ian starts, but doesn’t seem to know what else to say when he opens his eyes and looks pleadingly at him.

“No,” Mickey says, holding up a hand. “No, my fucking bad. I thought–”

He wipes at his mouth, looking around the room again. He jumped off a train and went to fucking booty call his son’s teacher. Standing in Ian’s sparse living room slowly working up a sweat in his winter coat, he feels fucking ridiculous.

He doesn’t know what he thought. He sure as hell didn’t think it was going to hurt this much, getting a ‘no’.

“It’s fine,” he says, backing away towards the doorway. “Do me a fuckin’ favor and just–, forget I was here.”

“Mickey,” Ian says again, his voice strained, but Mickey doesn’t stick around to hear the rest.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought there'd be kissing? KISSING?!? Really, what kind of slow-burn writer do you think I am? Nononononono. Sit down.


	21. I've got it bad (and that ain't good)

.

Part Twenty-One

**“I’ve got it bad (and that ain’t good)”**

_Featuring_ Ian Gallagher _as_ Ian  
  


_Starring_  
  
Carl Gallagher as An Unexpected Voice of Reason  
  


~*¨*~

“Up, up,” Carl grunts, snapping Ian out of his thoughts and returning his attention to what he’s supposed to be doing. Propelled by guilt, he starts forward to grab the barbell and help his brother lift it back up on the stand.

“Uuuuh,” Carl moans pitifully, his arms flopping down on either side of the padded bench. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Sorry,” Ian mutters, glancing around the room to check if anyone saw him fuck up. The gym is still empty, bar the one woman rowing steadily in the far corner. She’s got headphones on, and a far-away focused look in her eyes.

Carl waves off his apology and ducks his head under the barbell to sit up on the bench, giving Ian a suspicious look.

“What’s up with you?” he asks.

Ian knows he’s in a bad way if Carl both notices and decides to investigate why. His approach to other people’s private stuff is usually to stay clear, or let them come to him if they want to. Ian doesn’t particularly want to. He has made his decision, regretful as it may seem to him now, and he’s not really looking to talk it out with anyone, especially not his emotionally uncomplicated younger brother. But then again, he’s been walking around _not talking about it_ for almost a week at this point, and he’s just getting more and more miserable by the minute. Maybe emotionally uncomplicated is precisely what he needs.

“Been hanging out with this guy, kinda,” he says. “For a couple of months.”

Carl doesn’t immediately dismiss him, like Lip did, or admonish him for not saying anything sooner, like Fiona would. Instead he looks confused.

“Huh,” he says. “That’s what got you moping around all this time? Here I thought getting some on the regular would have the opposite effect.”

“Not like that,” Ian quickly amends, holding up a hand. “We haven’t–, there are circumstances.”

That doesn’t seem to help Carl’s confusion at all. “Like what?”

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Ian looks out at the empty gym and wonders where the hell to start. It doesn’t bother him if Carl ends up not knowing the whole story, or gets the wrong idea about the details, but he’s suddenly dying to tell him the most important part.

“It’s Mickey Milkovich,” he says, glancing over at Carl to gauge his reaction.

“And what?” he balks, staring back at Ian. “ _That’s_ your damn circumstance? You a fucking snob now, or something?”

“No!” Ian exclaims, glancing around the room again and lowering his voice before he continues. “Fuck, Carl–, _no_ , come on. His son’s one of my students.”

Grimacing, Carl clearly tries to connect the dots himself before he gives up and asks.

“So?”

“So,” Ian says and shrugs, “it’s unethical.”

Carl huffs out a laugh, before he seems to realize that Ian isn’t joking.

“Unethical?” he repeats incredulously. “Ian, sorry to be real with you here, but you teach middle school English. The fuck’s unethical about boning some guy whose kid happens to be your student? You think it’s gonna fuck with the integrity of your grading or something?”

“Come on,” Ian protests weakly. But that essentially _is_ his problem, and it sounds like a made up problem when Carl says it like that.

“I’m not tryna be mean,” Carl goes on. “But like–, middle school grades don’t mean shit, they’re like practice grades.”

“Yeah, well,” Ian sighs and stubbornly locks his jaw as he stares at the large dimmed windows letting through some of the dull winter sunlight. “It means something to me.”

Carl doesn’t say anything, but he seems like he maybe gets it when Ian looks his way. Remembering that he doesn’t need to be so defensive with Carl, Ian offers him a faint, thankful smile before taking another shot at explaining himself.

“It’s policy,” he says, and nods when Carl rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know, and maybe the board wouldn’t give a shit or whatever, but it feels like I’m still on probation with them since last time I did what I wanted without thinking about consequences.”

“Christ, Ian,” Carl huffs. “Really? That was _years_ ago, and I don’t think no one except you ever blamed you for that stuff.”

Ian appreciates what he’s trying to do, but Carl doesn’t know half of the hell Ian lived through that time. He’d gone off his meds – which in hindsight had been a fucking awful idea, but at the time had seemed like his entire future happiness depended on it – and it took him years to feel like he’d regained the trust he’d lost in that one day, with a long succession of seemingly harmless decisions leading up to it, ending with him back on the ward.

Hardly comparable in any other way, turning Mickey down and choosing every day to stay on his meds still seem to exist in the same space within him, resigned and protective and volatile. Something he _has to do_ in order to hold on to his own narrative, to have _any_ kind of control over how people see him.

“Not only me,” he says, not really looking to go into ‘who’, or ‘how bad’.

“Only you and _idiots_ ,” Carl insists, adorably. “And who gives a shit about policy, anyway?”

Raising a shoulder in a lopsided shrug, Ian isn’t entirely sure if he can explain why, but he does. “I do.”

“Since when?”

Time was, just after he’d been diagnosed, that Ian’s family would have no problem thinking of him as a new Monica. And the idea that one word – _bipolar_ – could have the power to turn him into a whole different person in the eyes of those who were supposed to know him best, hurt him more than he could ever tell them.

Monica wouldn’t have thought twice about policy, or consequence. About Yevgeny’s feelings, or Mickey’s best interests.

Mickey. Ian has been unusually open with him since they started hanging out, about _everything_ , but he has no doubt that his massive emotional baggage eventually will end up too heavy to carry, even for Mickey Milkovich. Who seems strong enough to carry him and all his fucking baggage to the end of the world and back again, if only Ian asked.

But none of that seems fair on Mickey, and Ian is notoriously shit at asking for help from anyone.

Shit. Mickey had come to Ian’s looking to _hook up_ – not to exchange vows or plan out their whole fucking future – and Ian kind of hates himself for already being ten steps ahead of himself, making decisions that aren’t only his to make, about hypothetical shit he doesn’t know for sure will ever happen.

“You know what I think?” Carl says, getting up to switch out his weight plates. “I think you’re scared of trying.”

Ian immediately wants to disagree, but waits for Carl to explain himself before getting all up in arms about it.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you get this turned around over anyone, ever,” Carl continues, slotting in a lighter weight on the left end of the barbell. “I think you really like this guy and you’re afraid it’s not gonna work out if you try.”

“Yeah, well,” Ian mutters and looks away from Carl when he moves around the bench to match the weights on the other side. “With good reason.”

“You don’t know that,” Carl says, pointing at him as he walks back into view. “Forget about everything else, what do you _want_?”

Ian has an answer, but he can’t get himself to say it out loud.

It sounds so _easy_ , coming from Carl. Stuff like this used to be easy for Ian too, once, before he had to resign himself to every aspect of his life becoming irrevocably complicated.

But maybe _this_ doesn’t have to be.

“His kid is, what?” Carl asks, getting back into position on the bench, forcing Ian to move out of the way when he lies down. “Twelve?”

“Thirteen,” Ian says, steadying himself by his brother’s head and checking his reach.

Carl lets his hands drop from the bar as he stares up at Ian. “So he’s gonna be in high school next year.”

“Yeah, but–,” Ian huffs, and shakes his head when he feels himself absolutely _yearning_ for Carl to disagree with him on this one. “You think he’d wait a whole year for me?”

Carl snorts.

“A _whole_ year, for _you?_ ” he says, clearly looking to make fun of Ian for even asking the question. “Nah.”

He lets out a muffled giggle when Ian smooshes a hand down on his face, just because he can and the little shit deserves it.

“Lucky for you,” he says, squirming his head out of Ian’s grip. “There’s only like, 6 months left of the school year. And who the fuck said anything about waiting? Just keep the dicking on the DL until you’re outta the woods, everybody does it.”

”Everybody does it,” Ian mumbles bitterly. _Except he isn’t everybody._

He bows his head, that’s the exact kind of thinking he’s been trying steer clear of since the army. There’s some truth to it, but it’s not the whole truth.

“Life is hard enough, you know?” Carl says, casually testing out the weight of the barbell before resting it back on the stand. “Don’t make it worse by presuming things are gonna go to shit way before they actually do.”

Ian is stunned for a moment, but then he huffs out a laugh. “When did you start making this much sense?”

“Making sense or saying shit you wanna hear,” Carl says with a grin, peering up at him. “Is there anything else you want me to tell you or are you gonna actually spot me this time?”

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Ian chuckles, bracing himself in case his brother needs him to catch his weight.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's song is [I've got it bad (and that ain't good)](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=KRgJ_WJCQFWIzlJkMhgd0g), which I thought was a very fitting title for this chapter, even though the song is about an abusive relationship and thus actually doesn't fit at all.


	22. I'm still here

.

Part Twenty-Two

**“I’m still here**  
**_Or_ **  
**Scene 13: Stars”**

_Featuring_ Yevgeny Milkovich  
_in a career-defining dual performance as_  
Yevgeny and Long John Silver  
  


_Starring_

Ponciano Rosiquez as Chano  
Louisa Thomas as Lou  
  


_And_

Mickey Milkovich as Dad and Jim  
  


_With_

Ian Gallagher as Ian  
  


~*¨*~

Yevgeny sets the roller down on its tray and takes a step back to critically survey his work. He was fully ready to accept the scruffy beige walls in his room as they were, when his dad showed up after school yesterday to drive them to the nearest hardware store and told him to pick a color.

He picked two, both slightly different shades of blue, and together with his dad’s friends they spent this morning masking out a horizon running all the way around his new room, to paint his walls with a deep sea under a bright sky.

“Looking good, Yevy,” Lou says, smiling when he twists to look back at her. She’s got a small roller in her hand stained with a gradient of both shades of blue, and she’s meticulously going around the whole room connecting his dad and Chano’s sky to Yevgeny’s sea.

“Yeah,” he says, looking around the room. The sun has gone down since they started, his window just a black square in the brightly lit, empty space. “Seems like we might finish today after all.”

Lou hums and sets down her roller. “Letting this dry while we’re eating, we could probably start moving some of your stuff in here too, huh?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Yevgeny starts, but is interrupted by the muffled buzzing of a phone. They both look around the room for the source of it, until Yevgeny picks up his dad’s sweater off the floor to reveal his phone, the screen lit up with an incoming call.

There isn’t a name, but the number still seems to be in his dad’s contacts. Considering for a second to let it ring out, Yevgeny eventually decides against it and accepts the call.

“Hello?” he says, carefully omitting his usual introduction. There’s a pause on the other end, but there’s definitely someone there. Yevgeny can hear the vague sound of people talking in the background, disappearing almost completely as a door is closed.

_“Yevgeny?”_ A voice says, and it takes a moment for his brain to match up the sound of it to the reality of him actually calling his dad’s phone at 7 PM on a Saturday.

“Mr Gallagher?” he asks, glancing over at Lou who is watching him with casual interest. “Did you–, did you wanna talk to my dad?”

_”No,”_ Mr Gallagher says and sighs. _”I don’t know.”_

He sounds distant, and like he’s as confused as Yevgeny about why he called. Turning around, Yevgeny sticks his nose out of his doorway to glance toward the kitchen. There’s a bright rectangle of light falling across the living room floor and he can hear the murmur of his dad and Chano talking as they cook.

“He’s in the kitchen,” he says, “I can go get him right now.”

_“No, no,”_ Mr Gallagher says again. _“Don’t do that, it’s–, you know what? It was nothing. Don’t tell him I called.”_

“Okay,” Yevgeny says and frowns, stepping back into his room. “I’m probably gonna tell him, though.”

Mr Gallagher huffs. _“Yeah, kinda figured as much. Have a nice weekend Yevgeny, see you Monday.”_

“See you Monday,” Yevgeny echos, staring at the phone for a moment after he’s hung up.

Lou gives him a kind smile when he looks up at her again, and he gets a weird feeling like she understands more about what just happened than he does.

“I don’t know about you,” she says and blinks at him, “but I’m getting really hungry.”

“Me too,” he admits, feeling immediately relieved that she didn’t ask him about the call. “I’m gonna go check on dinner.”

“You do that,” Lou nods and looks around the room. “And I’ll go ahead and start cleaning up in here, should I?”

“Thanks,” he grins, still clutching his dad’s phone in his hand as he leaves her to it and walks toward the kitchen.

“–fucking embarrassing, is what it was,” he hears his dad say as he gets closer and, not really thinking about it, Yevgeny slows down to a stop just outside the open doorway to listen.

“Come on,” Chano tuts, chuckling at something.

“No,” his dad insists, and it’s the genuinely distressed tilt to his voice that makes Yevgeny linger in the shadow of the doorframe. “Got all worked up for months thinkin’ we had something going and then turns out, hey, I’m shit outta luck! He doesn’t fucking feel the same.”

“Or maybe he’s just got a little bit more to lose in this, if it goes south,” Chano says, something sizzling on the stove as he speaks. “Seems to me like he’s got enough shit stacked against him already and that maybe he can’t go risking all of that on–”

“On me,” his dad interrupts.

“On someone he’s basically just met,” Chano firmly corrects him. “Did he say he doesn’t feel the same way?”

Yevgeny holds his breath as the silence fills a few long seconds before his dad sighs.

“Didn’t say anything,” he mutters. ”The way he fucking looks at me though… fuck.”

Chano hums knowingly. “He won’t be Yevy’s teacher next year, you know.”

Eyes practically bugging out of his face, Yevgeny leans back against the wall and looks down at the dark phone in his hand.

“I’m well fucking aware, thanks.”

“Would you wait for him, if he asked?”

There’s a pause, then his dad lets out an audible sigh.

“I shouldn’t even fucking be thinking about this,” he says, sounding lost and unsure and so very unlike his usually brash and confident self. “What’s Yev gonna think if he ever finds out? God fucking–, the fuck was I thinking?”

Frowning, Yevgeny decides that he’s heard enough. Pushing off from the wall he turns around the doorpost and steps into the kitchen. Chano is standing by the stove, cooking tongs in his hand as he’s giving Yevgeny’s dad a sympathetic look, sitting on his own by the small kitchen table.

“Hey kid,” he says when he sees Yevgeny, and none of that bewildered sadness can be traced in his voice now. “What’s up?”

“You got a call,” Yevgeny says, holding up the phone. “I picked it up, it was a wrong number.”

He doesn’t know why he says that. All his dad has to do is check the incoming calls and he’ll see that Yevgeny lied about it. But as things start falling into place, Yevgeny gets the distinct feeling that he isn’t supposed to get involved with whatever it is going on between his dad and Mr Gallagher, and trying to retell his confused conversation with the latter suddenly seems like stepping over some kind of invisible line.

“You guys getting hungry?” Chano asks, diverting the attention over to him and his deliciously sizzling stir-fry as he turns around to shake up the pan.

“Yeah,” Yevgeny says with a nod, and eagerly helps out when his dad tells him to fork over the phone and start setting the table.

After dinner, they roll the protective paper off of Yevgeny’s floor and carry his bed into his new room, placing it down a couple of inches away from the freshly painted walls. Mickey thanks his friends for their help and kicks them out in the same breath, grumbling about needing a long-ass shower getting all the paint-flecks out of his hair.

Yevgeny sits on his unmade bed for a few minutes, looking around at his empty walls and listening to the sound of water surging through the pipes. They’ll move in more of his stuff tomorrow, and they’ve got a lead on a second-hand desk they’re hoping to pick up in the afternoon if all comes to plan. Before he knows it, suppose this too will end up feeling like home.

It’s an odd experience, finally being here after all this time knowing it was going to happen. His parents have been divorced for years, and Yevgeny more or less knew they were never really together in any other sense than legal before that. Still, the reality of having two homes suddenly seems terribly new, even though it probably shouldn’t.

He’s never lived with only his dad before. It never occurred to him that this would ever be a problem, but maybe it’s okay if it takes them both some time getting used to it. It’s different. Hopefully really good different, but different all the same.

And his dad likes Mr Gallagher.

Nudging his glasses back up his nose, Yevgeny tries to figure out how he’s supposed to feel about that.

He feels fine, he thinks it makes a lot of sense. He should probably learn to call him ‘Ian’.

He feels guilty. Like he’s at the center of whatever reasons his dad and Ian have for not being together, why they’ve kept it a secret, and why his dad pretends to be okay when really he’s hurting.

Suddenly slightly overwhelmed by the whole thing, Yevgeny shakes himself out of his thoughts and gets up. Grabbing his book bag, he pulls the string on the floor lamp next to the couch and throws himself down on the worn leather cushions.

He takes out his scruffy play-script and folds it open to scene 13, crossing his ankles and propping his head up with a pillow as he starts to read the familiar lines.

“And such a wide, wide world,” he mumbles to himself, “shall I show you some magic, Jim?”

He looks over when his dad comes out of the bathroom, dressed in fresh clothes and scrubbing a towel over his still wet hair. Yevgeny watches him past the edge of his script as he walks through to the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the newly stocked fridge, and comes back into the living room.

“Budge up,” he says, twisting off the cap as he comes up to the couch and waits for Yevgeny to heave himself out of the way before he sits down. Yevgeny grins and scoots over a little so he can lie down again, resting his head on his dad’s thigh as he continues reading to himself.

His dad takes a quick drink from his beer and then gestures at him to hand over the script, not saying anything as he takes it and lets it rest next to Yevgeny’s head.

“Long John... the one-legged man of my nightmares?” he starts reading off the page. “No. There are millions of one-legged men on the sea, sailing's a dangerous life. Us sailors are ever in peril and Long John was my best friend. Not only on the Hispaniola... But in the whole world.”

“And such a wide wide world!” Yevgeny recalls his line. “Shall I show you some magic, Jim?”

“Yeah,” his dad says, taking another drink.

“Around us, nothing but sea,” Yevgeny says, sweeping with his hand to indicate the room. “Where are we?”

His dad sighs contently and sags back into the couch. “I don't know.”

“Look,” Yevgeny says, tipping his head back to stare up at the dark ceiling. “A bright star.”

Turning his head and catching sight of the content look on his dad’s face as he’s reading along in the script, Yevgeny suddenly feels compelled to tell him that he _knows_ , and that he isn’t interested in being made into a reason why his dad is in any way unhappy.

“Why do you have Mr Gallagher’s information saved as two flame emojis on your phone?” he asks, staring intently at his dad’s face as he seems to freeze up, scowling down at the script in silence.

He doesn’t look Yevgeny in the eyes when he eventually huffs and takes a swig off his beer. “Pretty sure you know why.”

Yevgeny frowns up at his dad, remembering what he’d said earlier in the kitchen about Ian not feeling the same as him. That strikes Yevgeny as the unlikeliest part of this whole surprise affair.

“He sounded sad.”

“Don’t…” his dad says, sinking further down into the his seat and resting his head on the pillowy back of the couch.

Watching the set line of his jaw as he swallows the rest of whatever he wanted to say, Yevgeny scowls stubbornly up at his turned face.

“Just want you to be happy.”

“And what makes you think I’m not happy, huh?” his dad complains at the ceiling, clearly trying to lighten the mood a little. “Got you, don’t I?”

Wincing and twisting his face away when his dad blindly smacks him on the head with his script, Yevgeny wants to tell him that he knows it’s not the same. He _knows_ , but he isn’t sure he knows enough to actually argue his point and make either of these thick-headed _adults_ see reason.

“Got this,” his dad continues, swiveling his bottle of beer over Yevgeny’s face for a second before reaching out to set it down on the side table with a sigh, his voice growing serious once more. “Got parole, and this place now. Good friends. Wouldn’t trade that shit for anything, least of all for the idea of something… something I don’t know was even there at all.”

Yevgeny stares up at him as he swallows again, his Adam’s apple bobbing uncomfortably through the angle of his neck.

“Just–, drop it, okay?“ he says, and that sad uncertainty from before seems to bleed through his attempt to sound firm. ”Please.”

Yevgeny turns his head to look up at the dark ceiling, raising an arm to point out an imaginary star.

“Capella,” he says. “Cassiopeia…”

He draws out the vague shape of a W, glancing up at his dad’s chin when he thinks he can see his cheeks move with a smile.

“All these stars and shapes is moving, Jim,” he continues the line. “Get the distance between them in your big brain.”

Stretching his hand out flat with his thumb forming an angle, he holds it up against the dark ceiling and shuts one eye.

“One, two, three, four, five” he counts out the distance, and points. “Polaris. The one constant immoveable star.”

His dad hums, and Yevgeny smiles and blinks up at his stars when he feels fingers absently start combing through his unruly hair.

“Hercules...the hero,” he says, pointing it out. “Perseus, Auriga, Cepheus, Lyra, Ursa Minor. Little Bear. Now for some magic. We use all this to find where we are in this dark empty sea... We look to the horizon.”

.


	23. I'm your man

.

Part Twenty-Three 

**”I’m your man”**

_Featuring_ Mickey Milkovich _as_ Leonard Cohen  
  


_Starring_

Svetlana Milkovich as A Thorny Distraction  
Jessica Norton as Jess  
Louisa Thomas as Lou  
Ponciano Rosiquez as Chano  
Evy James as Jess’ Pirate-Happy Girlfriend  
  


_With_

Samantha Haile as Sam  
  


_And_

Ian Gallagher as An Increasingly Frazzled Theater Director and Fool in Love  
  


~*¨*~

_”No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main.”_

– John Donne

***

“Jesus, watch it,” Mickey mutters as he tries to fold his legs out of the way of the long line of people struggling past him to get to the center seats. “Maybe think about gettin’ here earlier, next time? Fuck.”

He glares at Svetlana when she smacks him in the shoulder with her purse.

“What?”

“You have shitty mood all week,” she says, leaning closer to hiss into his ear as the last person files past them. “Snap out of it!”

“I’m here, ain’t I?” Mickey grumbles, his already churning nerves clenching at the thought of staying home and missing this thing he’s been looking forward to for _years_. “And like you know shit about my damn shitty mood, seeing as you’re like the human embodiment of a fucking thorn in my side.”

“What does that matter?” she asks, but at least she’s got enough pride in her antagonistic position not to pretend she’s anything less.

“Fucks with the baseline,” Mickey says, happy to take her up on some unfriendly bickering to take his mind off of everything else going on. “If I’m always in a shitty mood around you, you claiming I’m in a shitty mood is like saying the sky’s fuckin’ blue or water’s fucking wet. It means nothing.”

“It means I put up with you for years and never complain,” Svetlana argues, smirking when Mickey scoffs at this baldfaced lie. “I know difference better than anyone, between this and normal.”

“Please, go ahead,” Mickey goads her, “tell me what’s fucking wrong with me and I’ll be _happy_ to inform you just how little you know about me and whatever the fuck my _normal_ ’s supposed to be.”

“Never said I care _why_ ,” she says, lifting her chin as she stares pointedly ahead at the closed curtains. “Just telling you to stop, this is Yevgeny’s night.”

She’s got him on that one, and his lack of an immediate retort probably tells her as much. Mickey glares at the side of her face as the corner of her mouth quirks up in a victorious smirk.

He’s just about to prove her _very wrong_ , by any means necessary, when a flash of color at the end of their row catches his eye.

“Mickey!” Sam calls out and waves at him to come over.

“Shit, right,” he mutters and gets up. “Watch my seat.”

“Be back before curtains or I will not think twice about selling seat to highest bidder,” Svetlana promises him as he turns to gesture at the guy sitting on his other side to make way.

There’s a shrill whistle from someone in the audience, and he looks up in time to see Jess waving at him from the back row. She’s got Chano and Lou on one side, and her girlfriend on the other. Mickey scowls at them as they all start waving and whooping, laughing when he shakes his head.

They’re kind of the worst, and he absolutely fucking loves them for showing up.

Pressing his lips together over a pleased smirk and ignoring the exasperated sighs of all the people whose feet and gangly knees and bags he’s stumbling past, he somehow manages to wedge himself along the row and tumble out in the aisle next to Sam.

“Do you have it?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him.

She is dressed up as a decidedly punky pirate, blinged out with gold and trinkets hanging off her costume and her colorful hair bundled up in a bandana-wrapped mess on one side of her head. The other side is covered by a fake cast-iron pot lid, made to look like it has been fused into her skull. Mickey only barely resists the urge to tell her that she’s looking outright fucking adorable.

“Backstage?” he asks instead and follows when she nods and leads him up the side of the stage, and in behind the thick curtains.

“I think he’s kinda freaking out,” she tells him as they weave through the bustle of pirates and stagehands running around fixing things last minute. “Getting to talk to you for a sec will probably help, though.”

Mickey doubts that, but it’s still surprisingly nice to hear it coming from his son’s best friend.

“Maybe,” he mutters and turns around when he hears Yevgeny’s voice.

“Dad!”

He’s sitting on a crate in full costume, waving at him to come over. Standing in front of him is Ian, who turns around and steps to the side when Mickey walks up to them.

“Hey kid,” he says, ignoring Ian’s eyes burning two holes into the side of his face as he smiles down at his son. “Missing something?”

“Have you got it?” Yevgeny asks, his worried frown immediately smoothing out when Mickey reaches back to take out the knife he’s got tucked in under his belt.

Dulled down edge or not, he’s pretty sure smuggling knives into middle school theaters is the kind of thing his probation officer wouldn’t look too kindly at, if she knew. But his kid looks at him like he just saved his life, so on balance he figures he made the right call.

“‘Course,” he says and hands it over, waving an uncertain hand at Yevgeny as the kid excitedly straps it on to one of his many belts. “Break a leg, or whatever.”

”Thanks,” Yevgeny says with an apologetic grimace, patting his secured knife. ”Forgot that I didn’t have it at mom’s.”

”That’s alright,” Mickey tries to assure him. There’s been a lot of back and forth between the old house and their new place in the past week and yeah, it’s been fucking annoying, but Mickey really doesn’t want Yevgeny to feel bad about it. ”I was gonna–”

”Yev!”

Yevgeny twists to look over his shoulder at a group of pirates surrounding Nick, dressed up like some kind of fancy nobleman and gesturing for Yevgeny and Sam to join them. Crossing his arms, Mickey narrows his eyes and stares at him until he drops his arm and grins uncomfortably.

”Be nice,” Yevgeny says, holding out a hand for Sam to help him stand up. ”I think they want to do a show circle.”

”Yeah, sure,” Mickey nods and waves him off. ”Scram, kid.”

Yevgeny grins at him, before crutching off after Sam.

“Thanks,” Ian sighs, and the sound of his voice is like a slap to the face, immediately breaking Mickey out of his resolve to ignore the bastard until the hand stops clenching around his heart whenever he’s around.

He looks exhausted, dark bags under his eyes and his usually combed back hair a wavy mess under his crooked headset. Overworked and at his wits’ end is a good look on him, Mickey bitterly notes, and it really doesn’t help that his eyes seem solely focused on _him_ , even while a whole troupe of sugar-high teenagers teem around them in general confusion and pre-show jitters.

“Yeah, well,” Mickey says and swipes a knuckle over the tip of his nose as he makes sure to look away from Ian’s magnetic eyes. “You ever need some fuckin’ assault weapons, guess I’m your man.”

Pleased to see that Yevgeny has made it over to his friends and is laughing excitedly as they bundle together into a tight circle, Mickey takes a step back, intent on leaving before he says something he’s going to regret.

“Mr Gallagher! Over here!” Someone calls out, and Mickey raises his eyebrows and nods at Ian to get going, still not looking right at him.

But he isn’t leaving, eyes still unwavering and solely on Mickey.

“Hope you enjoy the show,” he says, taking a step closer when Mickey scoffs, not knowing what he’s supposed to say to that.

Ian takes another step and now he’s close enough that Mickey thinks he can feel the warmth of him radiating off the lightly freckled skin on his ridiculously nice arms. It’s in the middle of fucking winter, and it should be a criminal offense having those kinda guns and not wearing a fucking sweater around other people.

“I know you’ve been waitin’ on this,” he says, so sincerely that it makes Mickey want to grab on to him and never fucking let go.

But he can’t. If something’s gonna happen between them now, it has to be Ian’s move. It has to be.

Nothing wrong with throwing the guy a line, though, right?

Swallowing, Mickey feels himself leaning in closer when the first curtain call rings out through the auditorium and jerks him out of the moment.

“Shit,” he mutters and suddenly remembers where he is, and what he’s supposed to be doing here. He scowls at himself and takes another step back, trying to think of something definite to say. Anything to wish Ian luck, or tell him to fuck off, or fucking beg him to reconsider.

Pressing his lips together, he shakes his head and turns around and leaves. The lights go off as he makes his way through the narrow space past the side of the stage, walking over to the curtain and feeling with his hands for the end so he can slip through. But it seems like they have closed a second, inner curtain since he stepped up on the stage, and now he finds himself in a narrow, dark space between two sheets of heavy fabric.

“Fuckin’ fantastic,” he sighs as he paws at the next curtain, trying to find the hidden slit and only causing a big stirr, most likely to the amusement of the whole damn audience.

He’s about to give up and crawl under the fucking thing when there’s a hand on his shoulder, turning him around until he’s pressed up against another body and held close by the hips.

Swallowing whatever curse he’s got waiting on the tip of his tongue, he finds himself staring up into Ian’s wide eyes, his quickened breath ghosting over his lips.

“Okay?” Ian breathes out, eloquent as all hell, fingers digging into Mickey’s sides once they realize he isn’t trying to get away. “Just–”

He hesitates, and Mickey can see every uncertain shift of his face in the dark, eyes dipping in an unspoken question.

And Mickey is done fucking hesitating, he just nods numbly as he feels his hands follow the lines of Ian’s arms, over his shoulders and up his neck, grasping on to his face as they crash their lips together.

It’s only when the second curtain call rings out that they pry themselves apart, the sound of Ian softly sighing into his mouth ringing in his ears as Mickey fumbles for the exit and escapes down the side of the stage.

He isn’t sure how he finds his way back to his seat, but he does, impervious to the muttered abuse leveled his way as he stumbles past his row until he can flop back into his seat just when the curtain is drawn and the band starts playing.

He can sense Svetlana’s curious glances and he tries to wipe the victorious grin off his face, rubbing a hand over his still tingling lips. Fuck knows what just happened, or what it means. But he feels like he’s won every argument he’s ever had, and like he’s been running for years and finally broke through the finish line, and no one can take this moment away from him. Whatever happens.

”Ey,” he says and elbows the parent to his right, gesturing at the dark stage as a John Donne quote is projected over The Admiral Benbow Inn and the score swells. ”You know my son did all this?”

Someone behind them leans forward to shush him, while a spotlight throws a circle of bright light on a lone figure sitting slumped over an old table center stage. She looks up when the music dies out, raising her pint-glass to the audience in greeting.

”It’s in the air,” she says, her voice wavering for a second as it’s projected through the packed room. ”Enough years in my line of work, ye come to recognize it. Ye know the feelin’ the air gets when a storm’s about to come, it’s the same when danger’s acomin’ too. The air’s thick with the call of adventure tonight. Can feel it in every one of my bones.”

”Yeah,” Mickey mumbles with a pleased grin, relaxing back into his seat. ”My son did this.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my fave high school teachers once said "Today we're watching a movie, and like all movies watched in class, it's in black and white and subtitled in Danish." [Today's song is an homage to him.](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=Pikhl7mRTrisgV-SGYJ3tA)  
> (The lyrics are also slightly less desperate in this version, and while I love Leonard Cohen begging on his knees, it didn't feel like _quite_ the right mood for this wee chapter.)
> 
> You guys are great, thank you for reading. See you tomorrow.


	24. Almost like being in love

.

Part Twenty-Four

**”Almost like being in love”**

_Featuring_ Ian Gallagher _as_ Ian  
  


_With_

Mickey Milkovich as Mickey  
  


_And_

Yevgeny Milkovich and Samantha Haile as Innocent Bystanders  
  


~*¨*~

_All the music in life seems to be_  
Like a bell that is ringing for me  
  


***

After, when his students and their parents have drifted out of the auditorium to reconvene in the gym for the cast party, Ian walks out on the stage and looks out over the empty seats.

It went well, all in all. He’s never been so fucking nervous before in his life, and they had a couple of near-misses with slippery props and elusive lines, but it went well. Against all odds and despite the fact that Ian never once had a single clue about what he was doing.

He’s admittedly never been Tonya’s biggest fan, but he can’t wait for her to return next year and once more mantle her theatrical responsibilities. If the kids hadn’t practically carried the whole production, the thing would have been an unmitigated disaster. And if Yevgeny hadn’t ended up more or less directing the whole show, who knows where they’d be. Probably not celebrating a successful opening night, at least, snacking and singing ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum’ loud enough for Ian to hear it across the yard.

Careful not to lose his balance, he sits down on the edge of the stage and clasps his hands together between his knees. He can still feel Mickey under his palms, taste him on his tongue.

He wonders if he should be freaking out, wringing his hands in a regretful fit, but there isn’t a single part of him in this moment which isn’t exuberantly high-fiving all his other parts, congratulating him on finally getting his head out of his ass.

Absently rubbing a hand over his neck, he smiles to himself, surrendering to the hopeful wash of emotions turning the worst of his fears into excitement.

He doesn’t turn around to look when he hears footsteps behind him, and he isn’t at all surprised when Mickey plonks down next to him with a contented grunt.

“So,” he says and sighs, staring out over the empty seats when Ian looks his way. “How long am I gonna have to wait for your ass to catch up, if we’re doing this?”

Ian blinks at him in surprise. It would have been well within Mickey’s right to be pissed off over Ian’s waffling insecurities, and how poorly he’s managed to express them. But here he is, and he obviously wants to _talk_. Make plans.

Smiling fondly, Ian quirks his head to the side as he decides to risk being a dick about it. “Six months?”

His cheeks hurt he’s smiling so wide as he’s watching the unchanging profile of Mickey’s face, seemingly taking a few seconds to think it over.

“Alright,” he then says, letting out another put-upon sigh.

Ian huffs in genuine surprise. “Alright?”

Scowling, Mickey throws an almost uncertain glance his way.

“What?”

Ian wants to reach out and touch the pad of his thumb to Mickey’s creased eyebrows, smooth out his worries and trace the lines of his face to the bow of his lips. But he clasps his hands together and shrugs as his mouth twists in a wry smile.

“Was kinda hoping you’d fight me on that one,” he says, biting his lip over the persistently wide grin once more taking over his face when Mickey’s eyebrows fly up.

“Fucker,” he huffs out, shaking his head as the last of his insecurities seem to disappear with a cocky smirk. “Guess we could meet somewhere in the middle, huh? Compromise.”

If Ian has any say in the matter, there won’t be a single possible end to this day where he doesn’t fall asleep with Mickey in his arms.

“Three months?” he barters down his own initial suggestion, quirking an eyebrow when Mickey clicks his tongue dismissively.

“Lookin’ more like a couple of feet from where I’m sitting,” he says with a suggestive nod, inviting Ian closer and to please, go ahead, wipe the smirk off his face.

Leaning in, Ian stops halfway between them, enjoying the long-suffering look already on Mickey’s face too much to do anything other than watch him as he takes the hint and meets him in the middle.

Mickey seems to move through life perpetually annoyed with the world around him, but he kisses Ian like he’s an exception. His lips are soft and inviting, and he opens up with a keening noise when Ian shuffles closer and holds his face in his hands, tilting his head to the side to really get into it.

And, in accordance with Murphy’s law, this is the exact moment someone else enters the stage.

“Holy shit.”

Breaking apart, Mickey is wincing uncomfortably when Ian turns his head away, screwing his eyes shut as he scrubs a hand over his mouth.

“Didn’t know teachers were allowed to use that much tongue for _anything_ ,” Sam blithely carries on behind them, and Ian can hear Mickey groan next to him.

For a split second, Ian sees feels his world freeze over with dread. But then Mickey huffs out a laugh, and just like that his skin thaws and his eyelids unstick.

“Fuck off,” Mickey chuckles as Ian twists to look back at his student.

_Students_. Two preteen pirates, to be exact. Sam is practically vibrating with glee, and Yevgeny is standing right next to her. He looks mildly disturbed, but not nearly as shocked as could have been expected.

“Love is love and all,” Sam prattles on, the way Ian’s noticed she usually does when she thinks Yevgeny needs a minute. “But this is borderline traumatizing. Ask me ten years from now where I went wrong? This is it, right here, this is the moment.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey mutters, struggling to his feet. “You get to ham it up on stage for five minutes, and now you’re fucking, whatever– help me out, here.”

Grabbing on to Mickey’s outstretched hand, Ian carefully picks himself up off the floor.

“With what?” he asks, dusting off the seat of his jeans as he looks to Yevgeny for help when Mickey rolls his eyes.

“Good thing you’re gorgeous,” Mickey complains, shaking his head. “What’s the name of like, some overacting Hollywood drama queen I can use to insult this child?”

“Gary Oldman?” Yevgeny suggests, obviously knowing exactly what he’s doing going by the happy grin taking over his face when Mickey points at him menacingly.

“Ey,” he says. “You lay off my man Gary.”

“Maybe Nic Cage?” Ian wonders out loud, shrugging when Mickey looks at him again.

“Gorgeous and helpful,” he amends appreciatively, gently nudging his fist to Ian’s shoulder.

Sam makes a loud klaxon noise, folding her arms when Ian and Mickey look her way. Yevgeny rolls his eyes, but also doesn’t seem interested in running interference.

“Hands to yourselves at all times!” Sam declares, grinning as she prepares to run away when Mickey moves toward them.

“The fuck did I do?” he asks indignantly, but Ian doesn’t miss the way he’s reaching out to touch Yevgeny’s shoulder as he walks past him in his argumentative advancement on Sam. “I can’t punch a guy in the arm no more without Nic Cage over here going all puritanical on my ass?”

“Everybody knows the shoulder punch is bro for ‘I love you’,” Sam retorts, their voices disappearing as they walk through to the backstage passages. “I shouldn’t have to be the one to tell you that shit’s way too soon!”

Ian smiles fondly as he shakes his head and moves to follow them, only to stop in his track when he notices Yevgeny still standing in the same spot, quietly watching him.

“Mr Gallagher,” he says, and Ian would maybe be worried if the kid didn’t have the worst poker face known to man. A curiously endearing trait for an aspiring actor.

“Yevgeny,” Ian nods, and mirrors Yevgeny’s careful smile.

“Are you going to the cast party, too?” he asks, and the question is so tentative and unassuming it completely melts away Ian’s final lingering fears.

“Yeah,” he says and starts walking, gesturing for Yevgeny to go ahead of him. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

“Ian?” Yevgeny begins again as they walk under the hanging scenery and through to the backstage area.

And it’s just his name, but Ian could swear he physically feels something clicking into place inside him, listening to this brilliant kid – _Mickey’s kid_ – adjusting his language to make space in his life for Ian to be someone other than Mr Gallagher.

“Yeah?” he asks, doing his best to keep from smiling as he looks at the suddenly very ponderous pirate walking by his side.

“Hurt my dad and I’ll kick your ass,” Yevgeny says, nodding resolutely. “Grades be damned.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYBODY. Thank you for reading and hope you're having a wonderful day.


	25. Dream sweet in sea major

.

Part Twenty-Five

**“Dream sweet in sea major**  
_**Or** _  
**One year later”**

~*¨*~

Welcome to  
St Mary’s High School Spring Production of

**THE CRUCIBLE  
  
**

_Starring_

Troy Anderson as John Proctor  
Kimya Park as Elizabeth Proctor  
Rose Torres as Abigail Williams  
Alexander Freeman as Reverend Samuel Parris  
  


_With_

Ellinor Brown as Tituba  
Jules Rahmanpoor as Rebecca Nurse  
Daniel Anjos as Deputy Governor Thomas Danforth  
  


_Introducing_

Yevgeny Milkovich as Giles Corey  
  


_______________________

“Look at that,” Mickey says, slapping the back of his fingers against the playbill in his hand. His proud smirk falls into an annoyed frown when he looks to his left, abruptly reminded of the fact that he’s still sitting next to Jules Rahmanpoor’s immovable mother.

She nods indulgently at him, but Mickey knows she’s been too involved in the production to be sufficiently impressed by his vicarious boasting.

“Ey,” he says, twisting in his seat so he can flash the cast list at the people seated in the row behind him. “That’s my son right there.”

The two ladies sitting right behind him continue their hushed conversation, barely acknowledging his presence at all, but the guy next to them does the mistake of meeting his searching eyes.

“Only freshman to make the cut this year,” Mickey tells him, flicking the pamphlet for emphasis. “Killed his audition.”

For a brief second, the guy looks suitably impressed as he studies his own playbill, but then he scoots forward on his seat and leans closer, obviously intent on starting some kind of actual conversation.

“Andy,” he says and holds out his hand for Mickey to shake, retracting it uncertainly when Mickey only stares at it. “I’m Troy’s uncle.”

“Okay?” Mickey says, raising his eyebrows.

“You’re Yev’s dad, right?” Andy asks, smiling pleasantly when Mickey neither confirms or denies it. “Heard a lot about you, man, Troy says you work at Jailbird? Do you work with Chano Rosiquez?”

Immediately on the offense, Mickey scowls suspiciously at the guy. “Who wants to fucking know?”

“Me?” Andy says, his winning smile faltering slightly. “Andy? I’m Troy’s uncle.”

Mickey is just about to turn his back on the guy and ignore him for the next five minutes before the play starts when Chano practically heaves himself over the back of his seat in front of Mickey, stretching across him to offer Andy his hand in greeting.

“What’s up,” he says. “I’m Chano.”

“Big fan,” Andy says, looking rather relieved as he shakes Chano’s hand over Mickey’s shoulder. “Andy, Troy’s uncle.”

“So I’ve heard,” Chano says with a grin, folding his arms over the back of his seat as he seemingly settles in for a longer chat. “Though that doesn’t tell me much, is your nephew a friend of Yevy’s?”

“Well… you know how it is,” Andy clearly tries to evade answering the question as Mickey snorts derisively. “High school.”

Not necessarily a bully, Yevgeny has still told him enough stories about Troy for Mickey to know that the kid is a self-centered jock more interested in being cool than making friends with anyone who isn’t cut from the same cloth.

“Sure,” Chano says, accepting the lame excuse with his usual grace.

“Yeah, so,” Andy clumsily tries to transition to what’s most likely the real reason he’s still talking to them. “I’m looking to cover up this tattoo–”

He starts to roll up his shirt sleeve, obviously intent on squeezing in a full consultation between now and the first act.

“Jesus, fuck, put that away,” Mickey complains, loud enough for several people in the audience to stop talking and curiously glance their way. “The fuck do you think this is?”

“Here’s our info,” Chano quickly jumps in to smooth over the situation, reaching over Mickey’s shoulder again to offer Andy a slightly bent business card. “Call in and make an appointment and I’ll have a look.”

”Thanks,” Andy says and takes the card, no doubt annoyed at being cut off before he’s had the chance to sell his idea and make the arrangements on spot.

”The guy booking you in might sound like he bites, but don’t worry,” Chano continues, winking surreptitiously at Mickey. ”He’s really a sweetheart.”

Glaring daggers at his chronically unfunny best friend, Mickey is just about to get into all the ways ‘sweetheart’ is the very last thing _anyone_ should be calling him, if they value their life, when he’s distracted by some commotion further down his row.

“Excuse me, sorry, excuse me,” Ian mumbles as he makes his way over, only stopping to stoop down and give Svetlana a quick kiss on the cheek before he sits down in the empty seat left between her and Mickey.

“Minor wardrobe emergency,” he explains with a relieved sigh, smiling at Mickey. “He’s good now, Sam had a couple of hairpins and we fixed it. Hey Chano, Lou.”

“Ian,” Chano says and grins when his fiancé waves at Ian over her shoulder, sitting next to him. “Haven’t seen you around since you came to the shop, man. How’s it healing up?”

“Good,” Ian says with a nod, patting the spot over his ribs where his new half-finished tattoo has been placed. “Was hoping to book another appointment soon?”

“Don’t give me that fuckin’ look,” Mickey complains, crossing his arms and refusing to look directly into Ian’s stupidly persuasive eyes when he pointedly turns them his way. “You seein’ me with a computer right now? Family or not, you call in like everyone else.”

“You ever wonder what this guy’s love language is?” Chano asks Ian, pointing a thumb at Mickey like he’s no longer an active part of the conversation. “Might have to add a whole new category to accommodate for his particular brand.”

Ian huffs out a laugh, but doesn’t offer Chano any insight or ammunition to further his teasing.

“‘Antagonism’ could be one,” Chano brainstorms. “Or how about ‘Protective Threats of Violence to Third Party’, or would that fit under ‘Acts of Service’?”

Gearing up to defend himself, Mickey forgets about the whole thing with one quick glance in Ian’s direction.

A fond smile pulling at the corner of his lips, Ian looks exactly like he always does when he wants to kiss him. But from by now extensive experience, Mickey knows he probably won’t. Not here, like this.

Which isn’t a problem, neither of them have any desire to parade around and invite the rest of the world to gawk at their relationship. So it’s fine if he won’t, right here, like this. But they have also been together for over a year now, officially seven months, and lived together coming up on half a year, and Ian is _looking at him like he wants to kiss him_.

And Mickey knows that as long as they’re in agreement, this won’t be a problem either.

“C’mere,” he says and grins when Ian seems to completely forget where they are, eyelids falling shut as he leans in to capture Mickey’s mirthful lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

The second curtain call rings out and the lights dim as Mickey bops his nose to Ian’s, before reluctantly sitting back in his seat. Staring up at the dark flow of fabric obscuring the stage, Mickey suddenly feels his nerves creeping back in. This is the fourth play he’s been to since he got out and Yevgeny has been consistently marvelous in every one of his roles, but Mickey’s nerves are clearly impervious to reason.

His kid has been working so hard this semester, adjusting to being a freshman and stressing out over being the youngest actor cast in a speaking role. Mickey knows he’s going to be perfect – he always is – but he still can’t help imagining all the things that could go wrong. Listing them all in his head, in descending order of severity, he doesn’t notice that he’s clutching the armrest of his seat until he feels Ian’s hand on his own, gently prying open his viselike grip and giving him a comforting squeeze.

Letting out a measured breath, Mickey holds on to his hand when Ian moves to let go. Slowly, he feels the bubbling anxiety give way to excitement as they lace their fingers together and the curtains are pulled to the side, flooding the stage with light.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise bonus!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and encouraging this folly! Now, back to the regularly unscheduled programming.
> 
> Special extra thank you and much love to [the-rat-wins](http://the-rat-wins.tumblr.com/) whose inspired comments and ideas once seeded this story! ❤  
> And the same to [wideblueskies](https://wideblueskies.tumblr.com/) for the caffein, encouragement, and help! ❤
> 
> I have stocked the playlist with all the alternative songs originally considered for some of the chapters. [Enjoy!](https://open.spotify.com/user/loftec/playlist/65g9ZhZsLDftyfnyoGaAI9?si=eb9H1VHcSqeP7D11TzSdwQ)


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